CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(Monographs) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


TechnJcal  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographicatly  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 

ØColoured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


D 
D 


D 
D 
D 


D 


n 


Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommagée 

Covers  restored  and/or  taminated  / 
Couverture  restaurée  et/ou  pelliculée 

Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  géographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Enere  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  With  other  material  / 
Relié  avec  d'autres  documents 

Only  edition  available  / 
Seule  édition  disponible 


ØTlght  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  along 
interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serrée  peut  causer  de 
Tombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
intérieure. 


Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  II  se  peut  que  cehaines  pages 
blanches  ajoutées  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  était 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  été  filmées. 

Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  supplémentaires: 


LInstitut  a  microfilmé  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
été  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  détails  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-étre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibll- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite. 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  métho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqués  ci-dessous. 

I     I  Cotoured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I I  Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommagées 


D 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurées  et/ou  pelliculées 


0  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  décolorées,  tachetées  ou  piquées 

[     [  Pages  detached  /  Pages  détachées 

\y^\  Showthrough  /  Transparence 

Fy]   Quality  of  print  varles  / 


D 
D 


D 


Qualité  inégale  de  Timpression 

Indudes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  matériel  supplémentaire 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slips, 
tissues,  etc,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc,  ont  été  filmées  å  nouveau  de  fa^on  å 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  décolorations  sont 
filmées  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


Thls  item  Is  f  iltned  at  th*  reduction  ratio  chcckad  below  / 

Ce  documant  est  filme  au  taux  da  reduction  indiqué  ci-datsoua. 


lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

J 

• 

12x 


16x 


20x 


24x 


28x 


32x 


Th«  eopv  «lm«d  h«r«  h«i  bMn  raproducad  thanka 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

National  Llbrary  of  Canada 


Laxamplaira  filme  fut  raproduit  grica  å  la 
généroaité  da: 

Blbllothéque  natlonala  du  Canada 


Tha  imaga*  appaaring  håra  ara  tha  bast  quality 
potsilila  considaring  tha  condition  and  logibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spocificationa. 

Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  fiimad 
baginning  with  tha  front  eovar  and  ånding  on 
tha  laat  paga  **ith  a  printad  or  illuatratod  impraa- 
•ion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  eopiaa  ara  fiimad  baginning  on  tha 
firtt  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impraa- 
•ion.  and  ånding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illustratad  imprassion. 


Tha  last  racordad  framå  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  ^^  (maaning  "CON- 
TINUEO").  or  tha  symbol  V  (maaning  "END"), 
whichovar  applias. 

Maps,  platas,  charts.  atc.  may  ba  fiimad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  axposura  ara  fiimad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom.  as  many  framaa  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  été  raproduitas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin.  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattaté  da  Taxamplaira  filme,  at  an 
conformité  avac  laa  conditions  du  contrat  da 
fiimaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  eouvortu  ra  tn 
papiar  ast  impriméa  sont  filmes  mn  commsncant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  Is 
darniéra  paga  qui  compona  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  dHluatration.  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat.  salon  la  eaa.  Tous  laa  autras  axamplairas 
originaux  sont  filmes  an  commanpant  par  la 
pramiéra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraasion  ou  dMliustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darniéra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  symbolaa  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniéra  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbola  -^>  signifia  "A  SUIVRE ',  la 
symbola  ▼  aignifia  "FIN". 

Laa  cartaa,  planchas.  tablaaux,  atc,  pauvant  étra 
filmes  é  daa  uux  da  réduction  différan:s. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  ast  trop  grand  pour  étra 
raproduit  •n  un  saul  cliché.  il  ast  filme  é  partir 
da  rangla  supériaur  gaucha,  da  gaucha  é  droita. 
at  da  haut  mn  bas.  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagas  nécassaira.  Las  di-;rammas  suivants 
illustrant  la  méthoda. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICBOCOPY   RISMUTION   TfST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^    APPLIED  IN/MGE 


165_!   Eosl    Main   Slreet 

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THE  MAKERS  OF 
ENGLISH     PROSE 


WORKS         OF 
W.     J.    DAWSON 

Makers  of  English  Fiction 

lamo,  cioth,  gilt  top,  net  ^1.50 

One  cannot  read  a  single  chapter  of  this  book 
and  say  that  literarv  criticism  as  a  fine  art  is  a 
thing;  of  the  past.  l/pon  the  foundation  of  absolute 
knowledge,  and  with  a  mind  free  from  contempo- 
rary  literary  fads,  Dr.  Dawson  points  out  the  rising 
tide  of  fiction  in  the  English  tongu?.  The  authors 
considered  are  not  many,  but  each  one  is  typical, 
and  the  list  c  iJs  with  Steven^on  The  book  ''• 
marked  by  insight,  sympathy  and  common  sense. 

The  Evangelistic  Note 

Third  Edition.  ismo,  cloth,  net  «1.25 
"One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  stirring  of 
recent  books.  It  is  really  the  story  of  a  great 
crisis  in  the  life  of  a  great  preacher.  Mr.  Dawson's 
experience  in  his  own  churchhas  jistified  his  faith, 
and  his  book  is  a  most  stimulat.ng  treatise  on 
homiletics  and  pastoral  theology.  It  is  epoch- 
making  in  character."—  The  Watc fintan. 

The  Reproach  of  Christ 

With  an  Introduction  by  Newell  Dwight  Hillis 

The  International  Pl-lpit  Series 

i2mo,  cloth,  net  /i.oo 

Seventeen  selected  sermons  remarkable  for  the.r 
keen  eyed  piety  and  virile  grasp  of  real  questions. 
Aside  from  the  power  of  his  thought,  Mr.  Dawson 
has  a  beauty  of  style  an  diction  that  make  anything 
from  his  pen  charming  reading. 


Fleming    H.    Revell    Company 

PUBLISHERS 


s 


J 


THE  MAKERS  OF 
ENGLISH  PROSE 


BY 
W    J.   DAWSON 


"W^ 


NKW  AM»  KKVISKD  KDITIDN 


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New  York  Chicago  Toronto 

Fleming  H.   Revell    Company 


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^     I 


PREFACE 


IN  writiug  a  new  prefuc*»  to  the  revised  edition 
of  thiu  book,  it  tmamH  ucifHMury  to  euter  upou 
il  brief  ex])luuutiou  of  Ue  uaturu  uud  tmoiH)  of 
iiiy  Work  iu  order  to  uvoio  Mue  obviouM  luiMoueep- 
tioiiH,  uud  to  dimiriu  houiu  v  ^iially  obvioua  eritieitui 

Wliilo  it  is  toierably  certuin  tlmt  no  compi.  '. 
student  of  literutui-e  wiil  object  to  auy  of  the  nai:  ^ 
iu(lud"d  iu  this  Hedes,  it  in  quite  probable  thut  Hueh 
a  8tuUi>!il  will  regret  the  omissiou  of  »ouu>  nuuies  to 
which  he  will  think  that  literary  umguanimity  should 
have  exteuded  iuclusiou  uud  re<ioguitiou.  But  the 
questiou  i»  uot  one  of  maguunimity  but  of  jubtiee. 
EugllHh  literuture  i8  rieh  iu  writers  of  distiuetiou, 
mauy  of  whom  iu  their  owu  duy  have  eujoyed  emi- 
ueuce  aud  fume,  aud  have  exercised  cousiderable  iu- 
flueuce  over  their  coutemporaries,  but  they  do  uot 
rauk  With  the  makers  of  literuture.  The  perspective 
of  time  reveals  au  elu  -mt  artist,  it  iiot  the  kind  of 
artist  who  has  eularged  the  possi-  >ties  of  art  by  the 
opuleuce  of  his  owu  g'ft.  Wlieu  we  uame  the  fiual 
eategory  of  the  supreme  ex  elleuce  the  category  must 
needs  be  narrow 

It  would  be  te...  as,  aud  indwd  impossible  to  gi  ve 
ull  the  reasous  for  the  iuclusiou  or  exclusiou  of  vi«ri- 
ous  uames.  For  example,  it  may  appeur  au  error  iu 
judgmeut  that  Froude  aud  Robertsou  should  be  iu- 
cluded  amoug  the  mukei-s  of  Eu;,lish  prose,  wheu 
writers  such  as  John  Stuart  Mill  aud  Herbert  Speueer 
are  excluded.     But  the  value  of  writers  such  us  Mill 


6 


PREFACE 


and  Spencer  lies  in  their  contribution  to  thought  and 
science,  rather  than  in  any  thing  that  constitutes  great 
literary  excellence.  On  the  other  hand,  Froude  made 
a  reniai-kable  contribution  to  literature  by  the  iuven- 
tion  of  a  style  of  singulnr  flexibility  and  vividness, 
and  Kobertson  has  giv  ju  to  the  sermon  a  permanent 
place  in  the  literature  of  his  century,  which  is  the 
rarest  kind  of  achievement.  It  is  this  fact  which  de- 
termines  the  category  in  which  they  stand. 

The  same  canon  of  criticism  may  be  applied  in  an- 
other  direction.  America  has  produced  many  writera 
of  great  excellence,  aud  in  any  general  history  of 
literature  their  uames  could  not  be  ignored.  Every 
reader  of  discernment  will  be  thoroughly  aware  of  the 
merits  of  Motley  and  Prescott,  and  will  have  fouud 
delight  in  the  cheerful  humour  of  Holmes  and  the 
scholarly  essays  of  Lowell.  In  the  growth  of  Amer- 
ican literat^ore  their  place  is  high,  but  it  «an  hardly 
be  argued  that  either  stands  with  the  supreme  artists 
who  have  dii-ected  and  developed  English  prose  into 
new  forms.  And  it  is  the  form  that  is  the  chief  thing 
to  be  considered,  and  the  degree  of  fresh  and  original 
force  which  creates  a  new  form.  Macaulay  had  this 
fresh  force,  and  created  a  new  style :  Motley  did  not. 
Froude  had  the  gift  of  a  new  style :  Prescott,  wbose 
power  of  historical  judgment  exceeds  Froude' s,  never- 
theless  falls  far  below  him  iu  literary  art.  LowelFs 
literary  essays  are  the  productious  of  a  full  aud  com- 
peteut  scholarship,  and  will  always  rank  high  among 
lovers  of  literature ;  but  if  we  compare  them  with 
De  Quincey's,  we  at  once  perc^ive  that  the  latter  au- 
thor,  in  spite  of  many  defects  which  would  have  been 
impossible  to  Lowell,  also  touched  a  height  of  grace 
and  distinction  altogether  beyond  the  reach  of  Lowell. 


PREFACE  7 

So  oue  iniglit  pni-sue  the  niigracious  tusk  of  compar- 
ison,  but  the  one  determiuing  faetor  throughout  will 
always  reiuaiu  the  sjuue ;  it  is  the  quality  of  literary 
distiuctiou  which  eau  aloiie  form  the  basis  of  linal 
judgmeut. 

Yet  even  this  statemeut  ueeds  to  1h?  guarded,  for 
besides  origiuality  and  distiuction  there  is  one  other 
rt'(iuisite  to  a  great  writer,  viz. : — the  scope  and  weight 
of  his  contributioii  to  literature.  Holmes  clearly  pos- 
sisses  disti notion  of  stylo,  and  the  form  in  which  he 
wrote  was  new  ;  but  the  seope  of  his  work  was  lim- 
ited. He  makes  fugitive  aud  brilliant  incursious 
i  uto  the  realm  of  literatiu^,  but  he  does  not  altogether 
belong  to  its  citizenship.  The  same  thing  may  be 
sjiid  of  Dr.  John  Brown,  the  author  of  Jiab  and  His 
Fricnds,  whose  occasional  essays  are  full  of  a  delight- 
ful  tenderness  and  grace.  If  one  were  compiling 
specimons  of  the  best  prose  of  the  nineteenth  century 
it  is  certain  that  both  these  authors  would  occupy  a 
large  place.  Or,  to  meution  names  even  better 
known,  who  has  written  prose  of  finer  felicity  than 
Matthew  Arnold,  who  has  a  style  of  greater  subtlety 
aud  eloquence  thau  Pater,  who  has  uttered  wisdom 
in  more  brilliant  paradox  than  Oscar  Wilde?  Yet 
none  of  these  belong  to  the  great  makers  of  literature, 
although  each  hiis  attained  a  method  of  exprossion 
which  is  uuique  and  fascinatiug.  The  great  prose 
writer  is  one  whose  coutribution  to  literature  is  spa- 
cious  and  varied  ;  it  has  breadth  of  design  as  well  as 
brilliancy  of  expression.  Beside  the  work  of  a  Gib- 
bon,  a  Carlyle,  or  a  Buskiu,  the  work  of  such  men 
shows  meagre  and  slight.  They  aie  fine  aitists,  but 
they  do  not  belong  to  the  great  hierarchy. 

Such  are  the  general  principles  by  which  I  have 


m 


8 


PREFACE 


li 


1 1 


I  i 


been  gnided  in  the  writing  of  this  book.  That  the 
scales  are  always  even,  that  no  personal  preference 
has  been  permitted  to  colour  my  criticism,  that  I 
have  been  infallibly  just  or  incontrovertibly  generous, 
is  too  much  to  ask,  for  of  no  critic,  not  even  the 
greatest,  can  so  much  be  predicated.  But  I  have 
consistently  striven  for  just  judgment.  I  have  paid 
due  regard  to  the  established  verdicts  of  literature, 
and  I  think  I  have  not  greatly  erred  in  matters  where 
it  is  hardly  possible  to  be  wholly  free  from  error. 

The  relation  of  this  book  to  the  other  books  which 
form  this  series  has  been  already  stated.  In  the  order 
of  production  The  Makers  of  English  Poetry  comes 
first ;  the  present  volume  follows,  and  the  volume  on 
The  Makers  of  English  Fiction  concludes  the  series. 
The  whole  work  is  now  published  in  the  form  which 
I  long  ago  designed  for  it,  and  appears  for  the  first 
time  With  full  revision  in  its  American  edition. 

W.  J.  Dawson. 
Brooklyn,  April  22d,  1906. 


h 


CONTENTS 


I.  Johnson's  England 

II.  Johnson's  Mission 

III.  Boswell's  Johnson 

IV.  Oliver  Gulusmith 

V.  Edmund  Burke 

VI.  Edward  Gibbon 

VII.  Lord  Macaulay 

VIII.  Lord  Macaulay  {Continued) 

IX.  Walter  Savage  Landor 

X.  Thomas  De  Quincey 

XI.  Charles  Lamb 

XII.  Thomas  Carlyle    . 

XIII.  Carlyle's  Teaching 

XIV.  Carlyle:  Characteristics 

XV.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

XVI.  James  Anthony  Froudk 

XVII.  John  Ruskin 

XVIII.  The  Teaching  of  Ruskin 

XIX.  Ruskin's  Ideal  of  Women 

XX.  John  Ruskin:  Characteristics 

XXI.  John  Henrv  Newman     . 

XXII.  Frederick  w.  Robertson 


II 

23 
34 
49 
66 
82 
98 
116 

131 
149 
163 
177 

195 
206 

216 

231 

243 
252 
263 

273 

283 

298 


I 

i 


li 


il 


JOriNSON'S  ENGLAND 

Samua  Johnson,  bom  at  Lichfield,   1709.      Publiahed  hU  Dic- 
tionary,  1775  ;  Livea  of  the  Foets,  1779-Hl.     Died  Dec.  13,  1784. 

A  FULL  aud  accurate  picture  of  the  latter  hair 
of  the  eight^Æuth  ceutury  would  aflFord  oue 
Oi"  the  most  iuterestiug  studies  to  v/hich  the 
human  miiid  could  uppl}    tself  j  but  it  cauuot  be  said 
tiidt  any  such  picture  al  it.  «ly  exists.     We  have  mauy 
sketches  of  the  period,  lucid,  brilliaut,  exhaust,  /e, 
but  all  -axore  or  less  partial,  and  affording  merely  so 
inany  hints  and  elements  from  which  the  true  picture 
is  to  be  combined.     To  the  literary  men  of   this 
period  an  imperishable  iuterest  attaches.     We  seem 
to  see  them  as  we  see  men  who  toil  in  soot  and  semi- 
darkness  far  down  at  the  foundations  of  some  huge 
buildiug,  lifting  from  tlie  gloom  at  rare  intervals  a 
grimy  head,  and  ealliug  to  us  with  a  steutorian  voice. 
We  recoguize  in  them  the  pioneers  of  popular  litem- 
tui-e,  aud  feel  for  them  the  admiration  which  is  due 
to  that  species  of  silent  heroism  which  endurcsand 
labours  without  murmur  in  a  cause  which  briugs  no 
persoual  reward,  and  whosc  triumph  is  deferreu  to  an 
hour  so  distant  that  it  is  impossible  that  the  original 
worker  should  behold  it.     There  are  those  who  rea 
and  those  who  sow  :  for  one,  the  golden  w  iather  au 
the  joy  of  harvest ;  for  the  other,  the  bles  k  winds,  the 
hard  soil,  aud  the  labour  done  in  hop^,  and  only 
hope.     It  was  the  men  of  the  eighteenth  (jeutury  who 

11 


12      THK  MAKERS  OF  ENGMSH  PROSE 

sowed  tiic  harveat  which  we  reap  today.  It  waa 
Siimuel  Johnson  aud  h  is  coutemporaries  who  abolished 
Grub  Street,  who  raised  literature  in  England  iuto  an 
.onourable  profession,  who  quarried  throngh  clay 
auii  .uck  to  retieh  that  gold  of  Gol.oi..ia,  .>f  which 
they  indeod  secured  little  enough,  but  to  which  eveiy 
man  of  letters  can  now  help  himself  abuudautly,  and 
without  restraint. 

This  England  of  the  eighteeuth  eentury-John80u'8 
Ji-ugland,  so  to  speak-waa  so  entirely  different  frou 
oui-s  that  ir  is  difficult  for  us  to  arriveatajustuuder- 
standiug  cf  ils  life.     The  Freuch  Revolution  had  not 
yet  broken  up  the  deadly  stagnation  which  rested 
over  Europe.     It  was  an  age  of  religion  without  faith, 
ot   politics    without    honour,    and   of   life  without 
inorahty.     In  forgotten  pamphlets  and  remembered 
dianes,  in  the  poetry  of  Cowper  and  the  vindictive 
Kitire  of  Churchill,  in  the  private  correspoudeuce  of 
George    Selwyn,   the   published    diaries  of  Horace 
Walpole,  the  scanty  records  of  the  passionate  invec- 
tive  of  Burke,  the  sheets  which  hold  the  terrible 
eioquence  of  Junius,  and  even  in  the  yellow  pages  of 
the  old  club-books,  with  their  scrawling  memoranda 
ol  bets  and  debts,  we  find  a  picture,  only  too  vivid 
and  startling,  of  the  customs  and  manners  of  the 
time.     We  hear,  as  in  some  magic  telephone,  the 
coufuseil  hubbub  of  drawiug-rooms,  where  dicerd' 
oaths  aud  dicers'  gold  rattle  amid  the  whispers  o 'the 
utest  scandal  or  the  next  projected  bribery  ;  an  i  we 
hear  too,  with  even  more  terrible  distinctness,  the 
sea-like  roar  of  the  vast  mobs  which  besiege  the 
House  of  Commous,  clamouring  for  Wilkes  and  the 
freedom  of  the  press.     We  are  face  t«  face  with  cor- 
ruption  in  politics,   iucompeteuce  in  council,  and 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 


13 


pagauisiu  in  religion.  It  was  Kobert  Walpole  who 
said — not  with  noble  scoru,  but  with  sincere  con- 
viction — that  every  man  had  his  price ;  nor  is  there 
any  reason  to  bclieve  that  he  ever  found  himself 
wrøug  in  his  estimata  of  those  with  whom  he  had  to 
deal.  It  is  Johnson  who  tel  Is  us  that  Walpole  con- 
fessed  that  be  always  talked  grossly  at  his  table,  be- 
cause he  found  that  wr^a  the  only  species  of  couver- 
sation  in  whieh  every^jody  could  iudulge.  There  is 
no  British  statesman  of  to-day  whose  honour  would 
permit  him  to  use  the  secret  intelligeuce  of  the 
Government  for  pri  ato  purposes  upon  the  Stock 
Exchange ;  but  in  thfj  days  of  the  Georges  this  was 
one  of  the  most  fruirfui  soarces  of  income  to  a  min- 
ister. There  is  not  a  page  in  the  biognii>hie8  of  tbo 
period  which  does  not  bear  witness  to  the  venality 
and  degradatiou  of  public  life,  and  equally  to  the 
corruption  of  general  morals.  Out  of  their  own 
mouths  we  couvict  statesmeu  who  thought  it  no  more 
dishonour  to  provide  for  them  elves,  and  build  up 
stately  fortu  -es  for  their  childreu,  out  of  the  public 
purse,  than  to  ride  ffter  the  honnds  or  eat  a  dinner. 
If  we  wit  "draw  from  the  Parliameutary  records  of 
the  age  such  noble  names  as  Burke,  Barre,  Rockiug- 
ham,  Chatham,  Wilberforce,  and  the  faithful  few 
who  followed  them,  we  have  not  only  withdrawu  the 
great  lights  from  the  firmament  of  debate,  but  all 
light  from  the  firmament  of  public  virtue.  We  walk 
amid  a  ghastly  phantasmagoria  of  greed  aud  envy  ; 
amoug  men  who  have  bribed  their  way  to  Parlia- 
meut,  and  are  utterly  unscrupulous  as  to  how  they 
vote  or  what  they  do,  so  long  as  the  literally  gohlen 
goal  of  ofiBcial  life  is  quickly  reached.  Almost  the 
one  object  of  public  life  in  those  days  was  to  make 


14      THE  IVfAKEKS  OF  ENGLISH  lM{OSE 

mouey,  and  Cowihji-  UiU  uot  exaggerate  wbeu  he 
wrote: 

The  levée  Bwarms,  as  if  in  golden  pomp 
^^  Were  ctiaraotered  on  every  statesman'»  door  — 
"  Battered  and  hankrnpt  fortunes  mended  liere." 

The  public  purse  was  only  too  public,  for  all  hauds 
wei-e  as  deep  in  it  as  circumstauces  would  penuit.    At 
the  levée  of  a  Grenville  or  a  Graftou  £200  bankbilLs 
were  dealt  round  with  lavish  profusiou,  and   the 
position  of  a  Government  might  be  accurately  deter- 
n^ued  by  the  amouut  it  was  willing  to  pay  to  be 
supported.    It  is  calculated  that  every  change  of 
Government   added  from  niue  to  fifteen  thousand 
ponnds  per  annum  to  the  Pension  List,  and  what  this 
means  may  be  measured  by  a  statement  attributed  to 
Barke,  that  "  five  Prime  Ministers  raaintaiued  them- 
se]  ves  for  an  average  of  jast  fourteen  months  apiece, 
from  the  day  when  they  were  kissed  in  to  the  day 
when  they  were  kicked  out."    That  is,  to  put  it  in 
round  numbers,   in  less  than  six  years  from  forty- 
five  to  seventy-five  thousand  pounds  per  aunum  were 
permanently  added  to  the  Pension  List  by  ministers 
who  cor.ld  not  rise,  and  much  less  fall,  without  pen- 
sioning   all    their    dependents,   from  a  nephew  or 
a  secretary  to  a  broker  or  a  cook.     We  cannot  won- 
der  that  Johnson,  in  his  dictionary,  defiued  a  pen- 
sion as  "  pay  given  to  a  State  hireling  for  treasou  to 
Ins  country,"  and  a  pensioner  as  "a  slave  of  the 
State  hired  by  a  stipend  to  obey  his  master."    Prob- 
ably  the  one  meritorious  pension  grauted  in  the  latter 
half  of  the  eighteeuth  century  was  the  £300  per 
annum  given  to  Johnson,  aud,  as  we  all  know,  he  was 
bitterly  reproached  for  accepting  it. 


JOHNSON'8  ENGLAND 


16 


Tho  sociul  life  of  thu  pcriod  wtia  little  \yettn  than 
thu  public  life.  Druukeuuess  uuii  bettiug  wcre  tbe 
most  veuiiil  of  its  vices.  Cabiuet  luiuistera  were 
*'cou8picuou8  for  impudent  vice,  for  daily  disoipa- 
tion,  for  prauks  wliich  would  have  beeu  regarded  tu 
childish  aud  uubucomiug  iu  a  crack  cavalry  regiment 
iu  the  worst  days  of  militaiy  liceuse."  Oue  Secre- 
tary  of  State  wm  uotorious  au  the  greatest  druukard 
aud  uioHt  uulucky  gauibler  of  his  age ;  auother  official 
[)er.souuge  had  established  his  reputatiou  ou  one  gift 
ouly— if  gift  it  may  be  called — the  power  of  out- 
driukiug  auy  mau  iu  the  three  kiugdoms.  A  Prime 
Miuistcr  was  pormitted  to  appear  at  the  opera  with 
his  mistrcss,  aud  auotLer  .<5ecretary  of  State  was 
estcemed  the  very  vilest  public  mau  of  his  ceutuiy  : 


Too  infamons  to  have  a  friend 
Too  bad  for  bad  men  to  commead, 
Or  good  to  uame. 

The  passiou  for  gamiog  was  at  its  height.  Bets 
were  oflered  upou  everything :  whether  or  not  a 
luiuistry  would  last  six  mouths,  a  celebnited  criminal 
would  be  hauged,  a  war  with  auy  given  country 
would  begiu  or  end  at  auy  given  time.  Everything, 
from  the  state  of  the  weather  to  the  state  of  the 
world,  was  discussed  to  a  running  accompauimcnt 
of  odds  aud  guineas.  The  usual  demoralization 
eusued.  Iu  every  drawiug-room  the  ladies  were  the 
most  eager  players,  and  at  the  clubs  the  most  reck- 
less  were  the  youuger  men.  The  noblemeu  who 
througed  the  clubs  did  not  always  trouble  themselves 
to  play  fair,  especially  when  the  coutest  lay  between 
H  wealthy  stripliug  aud  au  impecuuious  prodigate, 
aud    the   losses   sometimes    wei-e   enormous.      Life 


fl 


.,] 


10      THK  MAKE118  OP  ENGLI8H  PROSE 

among  the  upper  (tltwsfs  wag  of  that  species  which 
is  irouictiily  describeti  m  «hort  and  merry.  "A 
aquire,"  aaya  Mr.  Trevelyan,  "past  lifly-flve,  who 
Btiil  rode  to  hounds  or  walked  after  partridges,  was 
the  euvy  of  the  comitryside  for  his  health,  uulet»  he 
hud  loug  Ijeeu  its  scorn  for  hia  sobriety."  Profligacy 
aud  driuking  lill  the  earlier  chapters  of  such  lives : 
gout  aud  prematuie  decay  the  later.  Eveu  Horace 
Walpole  ceases  to  be  cyuical,  aud  catches  something 
of  the  iron  glow  of  Tacitus,  oa  he  paints  the  picture 
of  cabiuet  miuisters  aud  statesmeu  *'reeling  into  tL; 
ferry-boat "  at  forty-five,  woru  out  with  druukenness 
and  gout  Walpole'8  caustic  obituaries  of  celebrated 
libertiues  are  not  pleasaut  reading,  but  they  are 
valuable  for  the  lurid  illuminatiou  w>iieh  they  pour 
on  the  character  of  the  eighteeuth  ceutury. 

When  the  customs  of  the  upper  classes  were  what 
they  were,  it  is  not  surprisiug  that  the  life  of  the 
lower  classes  was  iucouceivably  brutal  and  degraded. 
The  most  instructive  commentary  on  lower-class 
customs  is  found  in  Hogarth's  pictures  and  John 
Wesley'8  journals.  In  the  Beer  Street  aud  Gin  Laue 
of  the  great  artist  there  is  given  the  truest  portraiture 
of  drunkeuness,  in  all  its  filth  aud  maduess,  which 
the  pencil  ever  drew,  and  we  cannot  doubt  that  the 
details  of  these  terrible  canvases  were  sketched  from 
actual  life.  In  the  journals  of  the  great  evangelist 
there  are  chrouicled  the  faithful  reports  of  an  eye- 
wituess  who  saw  many  towns  aud  mauy  sides  of  life  ; 
■vho  probably  kuew  the  village  life  of  Englaud  as 
no  other  man  has  ever  done ;  who  had  a  thorough 
ju'(iuaintauce  with  his  country,  from  the  Tweed  to 
the  Lamrs  Eud  ;  aud  what  impressiou  do  we  gather 
from  his  puges!    Everywhere  we  read  of   almost 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 


17 


iuoouceivable  iguorance  aud  bratality  among  the 
poor :  how  the  churches  of  thone  who  shouUl  have 
aided  him  were  closed  against  hiin  ;  how  magi8trati>8 
did  all  they  could  to  sileuce  him  ;  how  violent  mobs 
were  always  ready  to  rise  at  the  first  chance  of  inis- 
chief.  The  inhuniauity  of  man  to  man  encouraged 
moral  callousness,  and  left  little  room  for  the  blossom- 
iug  of  auy  reflning  sentiments  or  acts.  Every  week 
a  host  of  young  lada  were  hanged  for  theft,  aud  the 
spectacle  of  a  eriminal  ridiug  through  the  streets  to 
Tyburn,  aud  gettiug  as  druuk  as  he  convenieutly 
could  upon  the  way,  was  too  eommon  to  attract 
atteution.  London  was  called  the  City  of  the 
Gallows,  for  from  whatever  point  you  entered  it,  by 
laud  or  water,  you  passed  between  a  laue  of  gibbets, 
where  the  corpses  of  felous  hung,  rotting  and  bleach- 
ing  in  the  light.  Nor  was  crime  suppressed  by  this 
striugency  of  the  law.  Highwaymeu  rode  into  town 
at  uightfall,  coolly  tying  their  horses  to  the  palings 
of  Hyde  Park,  and  executed  their  plans  of  robbery 
in  the  very  preseuce  of  the  impotent  protectors  of 
the  public  peace.  London  was  infested  by  gangs  of 
youths,  whose  nightly  pastime  was  to  bludgeon 
iuoffeusive  watchmen,  aud  to  gouge  out  the  eyes  of 
chance  travellers.  Dean  Swift  dared  not  go  out  after 
daik,  and  Johnson  wrote : 


Prepare  for  death,  if  here  at  nigbt  yon  roam, 
And  sign  your  will  before  you  sup  from  home. 

Ludgate  Hill  swarmed  with  mock  parsons,  and 
thousands  of  spurious  marriages  were  celebrated 
every  year.  lu  the  public  priuts  of  the  time  we  read 
au  advertisement  like  this  :    "  For  sale,  a  negro  boy, 


i> 


I«      TFfK  MAKKKH  OF  KNCJI.ISII  IMiOSK 

tiKwl  «'li-vvii  ymiH.     Inquiro  ut  the  "/irgiiiiH  foflW'- 

lionm',  ThreadiuH'«lU«  .Htr»t't,  lM>hiiia  tbt^  Koyul  Kx 

rlwngf."    H<)  littl«  wjw  tho  public  contiei(>uei'  ulivt 

to  the  wrong  of  «hivery,  that  even  (tcoi-ge  Whiti>lii>ld 

thought   it  ii(«  Hhauie  to  buy  Hhivt-H  m  purt  of  the 

proiHMly  of  \m  orphauaKe-houst!  in  Aiufrii-u.     The 

pi«'H8-gang  wjiM  u  coiistaut  public  teri-or.    Huiuggling 

was  a  ri-sptftabl»!  and  Iiiiiativ«  «'niploynicut ;  bniiidy 

wsw  four  shillings  a  gaUou,  and  port  a  shilling  a 

bottle.     In  Hoiue  parishes  evtiy  fourth  house  was  a 

tavern,  aud  in  the  windows  of  untny  niiglit  ln;  read 

the  aunouucement,  "  Druuk  for  a  penny,  and  drunk 

With  stmw  to  lie  upou  for  twopeuce."    The  anuis»?- 

ments  of  the  jwoplt;  were  ehanieterized  by  a  sort  of 

rough  jollity,  aud  in  Johnson'8  tlay  football  was  still 

l»layed  iu  the  Straud,  and  sniock-nues  were  run  in 

Pall  Mali.     It  is  hard  to  lM'lieve  that  this  £ii-land 

of  Johnson  is  hut  a  huudred  years  reujoved  from  us 

the  chronologieal  gulf  of  s«'paration  isslight  erough, 

but  the  moral  and  social  gulf  immeiusurable. 

It  is  sc-arcely  surprising  that  in  sueh  aiUTiod  polit- 
ieal  liberty  wjis  not  und«'rstood,  and  that  the  very  fouu- 
diitions  of  right  government  were  inseeure.  Freedon; 
of  8p«'eeh  wjus,  in  faet,  hardly  more  possihle  under tlu^ 
(Jeorges  than  the  tirst  Stuarts.  8ul)servience  to  the 
(•(mrt  was  jis  indispenssible  a  eondition  of  suceessful 
public  li  fe  sus  the  bribery  of  th»'  eonstituencies. 
(Jeorge  III  never  forgot  a  divisioii  or  forgave  an 
adverse  vote.  The  most  diligent  and  painstaking 
student  of  Parliamentary  debates  was  the  Kin^^  hini- 
self,  and  the  objeet  of  his  studies  was  to  diseover  and 
repress  aiiy  opini<»n  that  couflictcd  with  his  own. 
Brave  men  who  had  served  under  th«'  British  flag 
with  houour  iu  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  were  de- 


JOHNSONS  KX(jr,ANI> 


19 


lilxTBtdy  ijriioml  tinU  «•>«.»  «lepriv»-*!  of  tli«>ir  com 
iiiiHHiouH,   lnH-miM».  thoir  |N>liticiil   opinioim  <lid   not 
«oiiicide  with  thorn*  of  tiu-ir  royul  imiHter ;  and  the 
NovereiKii  of  u  gmif  «'inpire  could  Hink  ho  Iow  rh  to 
rwjneHt  hin  Prinu'  Mininter  to  funilHh  hiin  with  a  liHt 
of  thow'  who  had  voted  iu  the  niiuoiity,  that  he might 
turn  his  back  upon  theni  at  to -morrow*H  levet'.     "  If 
the  Hpiiit  of  Hervice  could  lx?  killed  iii  an  EngliNh 
arniy,"  .said  the  indignant  Chatl,  un,  "suehHtrokeHof 
wanton  iujustiee  woiild  bid  fair  for  it."     When  (Muge 
III  Hiiid  With  bitter  truth  that  "  politicH  were  a  trade 
for  a  «ouudrel  aud  not  for  a  gentleman,"  he  forgot 
how  niuch  he  himself  had  done  to  degrade  theni,  and 
how  the  worHt  scoundrelsof  politics  were  thone  who 
Htoo<l  neaivHt  the  royal  person  and  ate  the  royal  bread. 
ChHirge  III  wjis  notabove  "paving  the  way  for  a  new 
eontest  in   a  county  by  diseharging  the  outstanding 
debts  of  the  hwt  eandidate,  subsidizing  the  patron  of 
a  lK)rough  With  a  grant  out  '>f  the  Privy  Purse ;  and 
writMig  With  the  pen  of  an  English  sovereign,  to  offer 
a  subject  sonie  'gohl  pills'  for  the  pnrpos»,  of  hoens- 
smg  the  freeholders."     He  nianipulatcd  the  eonstitu- 
encns  with  the  uuscrupulous  zeal  and  Ju-Mjteness  of  a 
lK)rn  electioneering  agent.     With  a  Kiu„  who  opeuly 
dealt   in  every  species  of  poiitical  jobhery,  it  is  not 
surpn«ing  that  there  should  be  a  public  demoralized 
fo  the  Jjujt  degree  by  bribery  aud  rapacity.     It  wsis 
really    the    nipaoity    of    the  plsiceman   whicli   eost 
liritain  her  American  colonies,     Provinces  were  re- 
peiit*^!^'   taxed    to   support  sinecurisLs  whom   they 
never  saw,  and  in  an  evil  hour  the  American  colonies 
were  sugg(vsttHl  as  an  a<lmi rable  field  for  the  exploi - 
tation  of  the  poiitical  jobln-r.     Theticry  penof  Juiiius 
prote8ted"that  it  «as  not  Virginia  that  Muuted  u 


i' 

i  t 

-'i 


20      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PIIOSK 

Governor,  but  a  Court  favomite  that  wauted  a  salary." 
The  debt  of  gratitude  that  the  present  geueratioii 
owes  to  Juuius  it  woukl  be  impossible  to  ovei-state. 
Ofteu  he  may  be  envenouied,  but  he  is  seldom  un- 
veracious  ;  aud  it  is  to  this  mau,  who  dwelt  apart  iu 
houourable  pride  aud  scorn,  coudeuiuiug  from  his 
secret  jndgmeut-seat  the  evils  of  his  time  ;  who  was 
more  powerful  thau  Cabiuets  aud  more  feared  thau 
kiugs  ;  who  lived  his  sileut  life  with  the  iroii  mask 
ever  on  his  face,  aud  died  aud  uiade  no  sign  ;  it  is  to 
this  man  that  Euglaud  owos  much  of  her  precious 
heritage  of  liberty  which  is  hers  to-day.  Juuius  aud 
John  Wilkes  were  the  political  saviours  of  the  eight- 
eeuth  Century  ;  Jolmsou  and  VVesley  were  its  moral 
aud  religions  stiviours. 

It  is  related  that  Johnson  and  Savage  once  walked 
tlie  streets  of  Lo"don  all  night,  because  they  were 
toopoortop-ocnrelodgings  ;  but,  says  Johnson,  "  We 
were  iu  high  spirits  aud  brimful  of  patriotism  ;  we 
inveighed  against  the  Ministry,  and  resolved  to  stand 
by  our  country."  It  is  ludicrous  enough— two  rag- 
ged  liteniry  hacks,  without  a  sixpence  for  their  beds, 
resolving  to  stand  by  their  country— and  yet  that 
was  precisely  what  the  country  most  uetMled,  the 
loyal  adhcrcnce  of  true  and  upright  souls  like  John- 
son's.  For  th<'  problem  Johnson  had  to  tiu-e  wjis 
that  of  a  country  fast  going  to  pieces,  and  how  to 
s:ive  her.  Tiie  celebrated  obstMvation  of  Loi-d 
Chesterfield,  that  he  saw  in  Fnince  every  sign  that 
prccetled  grcat  rrvolntions,  might  have  becn  applicd 
With  equal  truth  to  Kiigland.  F(»r  in  England,  as  iu 
Frauce,  Voltairism  iuul  infccled  tlu'  thinking  dasses, 
political  blindness  had  fallen  on  the  rull ng  classcs, 
and  the  passiou  of  rcvolutiou  was  ali-eady  seethiug 


i 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 


ai 


in  tlu'  hcjuts  of  tlie  lower  ch».s.st*s.  A«l«l  to  this  the 
siKTtack'  of  a  Church  whow  sniritual  power  lisul 
Wiineil  iilmost  to  extiuction  heciuist^  its  priests  hsul 
lost  siiicerity  Jiml  inorited  contein[)t,  a  gfiicnil  seoni 
of  literature,  a  general  disljelief  in  virtue,  aiul  you 
have  imleed  all  the  couditious  which  precede  aud 
produee  revolutions.  Even  men  like  David  Hume 
and  Horace  Walpole  believed  in  the  iiuniinence  of 
sonie  vast  political  convulsion,  aud  Walpole  had 
uioit»  than  ouee  seeu  London  at  the  mercy  of  iis  tur- 
lmh'nt  and  rcsolute  a  mob  as  ever  tore  up  the  paviug- 
stones  of  Paris  for  barricades,  aud  fought  behiud 
tlieui  with  the  wild  ferocity  of  tigers.  lu  such  au 
age  Johnson  went  to  church,  aud  Wcsley  weut  into 
the  highways  aud  hedges  to  care  for  those  whom  the 
Church  ueglected.  If  Walpole  had  visitedMoorfields 
at  four  o'clock  ou  a  New  Year's  morning,  he  would 
have  fouud  thousiiuds  of  people  staudiug  hushed 
before  the  appeals  of  Wesley  ;  or  had  he  goue  to 
Biistol,  he  might  have  fouud  still  vaster  crowds  of 
griuiy  miners  weeping  under  the  impassioned  oratory 
of  Whitefield.  The  very  enthusiasm  aud  streugth  of 
character  which  would  have  made  many  a  miner  and 
niechauic  a  dariug  aud  dreaded  c^iptaiu  of  a  mob, 
\Vesley  directod  to  the  pcjK-eful  battle  fields  of  light- 
eousuess,  and  thus  chauged  the  men  who  might  have 
proclaimcd  a  Commuue  into  the  most  loyal  subjects 
tiiat  the  king  posseased.  Thus  it  happeued  that 
wheu  the  great  Itevolution  came,  fifty  years  of  the 
great  evaugelical  revival  had  done  their  woik,  and  it 
was  ouly  the  trailing  edgcs  of  the  storm-cloud  that 
swept  our  shorcs.  This  is  a  conclusiou  now  univer- 
sally  adniitted  by  all  coinpetent  historians,  aud  it  is 
equally  certain  that  what  Wesley  did  in  one  ilomaiu 


22 


THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 


of  national  life,  Johnson  did,  by  very  diffeirnt  moans, 
I"  auother.  Both  were  greaf  con«ervative  Ibrcv.s,  and 
ineredibe  a«  it,  would  have  seemed  to  th.  „u'n  of 
Johnson'8  day,  yet  it  wiuj  from  an  oixscureund  exroni- 
mumcat^d  clergyman,  and  from  a  raggtnl,  ncglected, 
half-bhnd,  and  scrcfulous  scholar,  who  ha<l  know.! 
what  It  was  to  work  in  literature  foi-  fiftecnpence  a 
uay,  that  the  true  salvation  of  Euglaud  came. 


v    -; 


n 

JOHNSON'S  MISSION 


INthis  distracted  Englaud,  what  i)hice  was  there 
for  authorship?  Tliat  was  a  bård  questiou,  but 
oue  whicb  in  due  time  Samuel  Johnson  was 
called  upou  to  solve.  It  was  in  tiuth  tlie  very  hard- 
est age  for  authors  that  England  had  ever  knowu, 
Shakespeare  bad  bad  his  Lord  Southampton  on  whom 
to  rely,  and  many  a  lesser  man  thau  be  had  had  some 
patron,  gracious  or  supercilious  as  the  case  might  be, 
but  who  at  least  bad  stood  between  the  poor  author 
and  waut,  aud  had  tbus  made  the  profession  of  liter- 
ature  possible.  But  if  the  age  of  the  patron  bad  not 
altogetber  gone,  it  was  fast  goiug,  and  the  age  of  the 
public  bad  not  come.  The  author  Mas  like  some 
shivering  minstrel  who  bad  been  tbrust  out  from  the 
comfortable  light  and  warmth  of  a  tavern,  where  be 
bad  at  least  been  permitted  to  sing  unmolested,  if  uu- 
honoured,  and  there  was  nothing  bofore  bim  but  the 
bleak  winds  and  the  homeless  was:  j.  Where  wiis  he 
to  got  Who  want«'d  bim?  He  bad  no  recognized 
place  in  the  world:  he  w;is  a  dubious  creatui-e,  for 
whom  no  chair  was  set  at  the  board  of  ''fe.  His 
work  was  self-imposed  and  questionable,  understood 
by  few  and  val  ned  by  yet  fewer.  Had  be  been  a 
bricklayer  or  a  hostier,  the  world  would  at  least  have 
<!redited  bim  with  a  definite  vocation  ;  but  author- 
ship  was  a  term  of  reproach,  and  tlu'  author  was 
only  a  shade  more  reputable  than  the  higbwayman. 

23 


iHk 


H 


J 


I; 

:  'I 


24      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

Horace  Walpole,  altliough  he  dabbled  in  litei-ature, 
hated  autliors :  Burke'8  political  career  was  at-tually 
hmdered  in  its  early  stages  by  the  fact  that  he  had 
written  a  book.     It  must  ever  be  a  matter  for  amaze- 
ment  that  in  such  an  age  auy  man  of  spirit  could 
have  seriously  thought  of  literature  -as  a  profrssiou, 
aud   uothiug  but  a  miraeulous  eudowment  of  that 
ethereal  lire  which  men  call  hope  could  have  sus- 
tained  auy  man  in  such  a  purpose.     Men  turned 
authors  ouly  because  every  other  livelihood  had  failed 
them :  they  were  uuwilling  martyns  goaded  ou  to  an 
unheroic  Calvary.     He  who  turued  his  lace  towards 
the  Calvary  of  literature  by  force  of  au  inward  and 
not  an  outward  '«ompulsion,  could  ouly  do  so  because 
he  was  auimated  by  some  vision  o^  a  divine  joy  th;'«^ 
was  set  before  him,  some  supremely  uoble  purpo.se 
that  at  ouce  inspired  and  gladdeued  him,  and  was 
its  owu  exceediug  great  reward.     Had  a  new  Fox 
flourished  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  set  about 
writiug  a  new  Book  of  Martyrs,  it  is  probable  that  he 
would  have  gone  to  Grub  Street  instead  of  Smithfieid 
for  his  chrouicles,  aud  have  fouud  his  heror^  in  liter- 
ature,  not  in  religion. 

The  more  thoroughly  tlie  eight«enth  century  is 

studied.   the  truer  will  these  observations  appear. 

Ihe  life  of  eighteeuth-century  authors  is  one  pro- 

louged   Ihad  of  misfortuue,    misery,   and  shattered 

hope.     Fieldiug  died  a  broken  man,    in  the  very 

prime  of  life ;  Smollett  had  to  toil  like  a  galley -slave 

for  suLsistence ;  Richardson  ouly  succeeded  in  secur- 

nig  modest  comfort  for  himself  because  he  could 

pr  mt  and  seil  books  as  well  as  write  them.     Burke 

said  bitterly  enough  that  figures  of  arithmetic  were 

hetter  worth  his  while  thau  figures  of  rhetoric  j  Gold- 


I 


JOH^SON'S  MISSIOX 


25 


Biuith  WS18  for  y«.'ai"S  the  literal  slave  of  the  booksell 
ers ;  Chattertou  perished  uuhelped ;  Johuson  had  to 
selve  the  problem  of  how  to  live  iu  a  Londou  garret 
ou  eighteenpeiice  a  day.  The  day  was  past  wheu  the 
wit  of  Prior  w.is  i-ewarded  with  au  einbasvsy,  aud  the 
graceful  huuiour  of  Addisou  was  a  pjissport  to  a 
Secretaryship.  Money  uiight  iudeed  be  earned  still, 
aud  iu  profusiou,  by  a  certaiu  species  of  politieal 
authoj-ship,  but  it  wiia  uot  luouey  which  auy  houour- 
able  uiuu  would  care  to  toueh.  Walpole  speut  iu  teu 
yeai-s  liity  thousjiud  pouuds  aiuoug  the  writei-s  of 
ephemeral  articles  aud  pauiphlets,  but  uot  a  siugle 
peuuy  ou  auy  mau  whose  uauie  is  remembered  iu 
literature  to-day,  except  the  peusiou  he  bestowed  ou 
Youug.  A  few  of  the  uames  of  these  truculeut 
scribblers  are  still  preserved  iu  Pope'8  Dunciad: 
uotably  Aruall,  who  reeeived  in  four  yeara  ueaily 
eleven  thousaud  pouuds,  aud  whose  tharacter  may 
be  uieasured  by  Pope's  stinging  line. 


Ai 


Spirit  of  Arnall !  ald  me  whilst  I  He. 

Poi)e  had  iudwd  made  a  foitune  by  literature,  but 
Pope  was  the  fiist  poet  of  his  day,  aud  was  one  of  the 
shrewdest  men  of  business  who  ever  livetl.  But  even 
Pope  had  uo  pride  iu  his  a  ihorship,  and  claimed  no 
dignity  for  the  professi<  mau  of  letters.     It  was 

the  smart  of  personal  va  ,  writhing  ander  the  re- 
proaeh  of  authorship,  which  made  him  so  meauly 
auxious  to  dissociate  himself  from  his  poorer  con- 
fetlerates  iu  literature,  and  dictated  the  Dunciad. 
Pope'8  great  siitire  on  Grub  Street  produces  to  day 
au  eflfeet  the  very  opposite  of  that  whieh  he  iutended. 
it  reveals  the  malevoleuce  of  the  poet,  aud  holds  up 


<l 


■■^Så 


r 


•  i 


I  :( 


II 


!       I 


20 


THK  MAK  KUS  OF  KXGLISH  PKOSE 


Gnil)  Htivct  uot  to  etoniul  s('«»n,,  but  (o  commijs,.ra- 
x.i.    uiul  sympatl.y.     A   laijre-hearUHl   mai,   woiild 
liave   iHn,   miWxwy\  l.y  l.j.s  vc-ry  «.urm,  i,„o  «oiue 
oon.piLs.sioi.  lor  the poor raKgod  iliu(l{,^t.s  whose  service 
ul  hterature,  siich  ;is  it  Wius,  biouKl.t  (lu-m  no  better 
i-ewarU  tbau  the  garret  and  tlie  8po<    ing-l.ouse,  or  at 
W  he  wouid  have  lefraiuetl  fron,  iusulting  their 
uustortunes.     liut  Pope  wus  not  a  large-hearted  jnan, 
and  was  too  nim-h  under  the  tiaditions  of  literature  bv 
patrouageto  perceive  that  in  Grnb  Street  the  founda- 
t.ons  were  being  laid  of  a  repnblie  of  letters,   in 
which  the  patron  would  be  abolished  aud  supplauted 
by  the  public. 

Thi.s,  then,  was  the  state  of  thiugs  wheu  Samuel 
Johnson,  a  lean,  purblind,  friendless  seholar,  made 
his  appeaiance  in  London,  humbly  seeking  from  Mr. 
Edward  Cavo,  of  St.  John\s  Gate,  Clerkenwell,  liter- 
aiy  employnu^nt  on  ' lie  iiniUemmi^H  Miujazine.    There 
vas  httle  enough  to  recommeud  him,  aud  he  had  little 
to  hope  for.     He  was  literally  what  BoswelFs  father 
years  later,  eor,temptuous!y  sjiid  he  was,  "  A  domiuie 
who  kept  a  school  and  called  it  au  academy."     Ife 
M'j,8  also  a  schoolmaster  who  had  failed.     Strange  and 
rough  lu  mauner,  odd  almost  to  grotesqueuess  in  ap- 
pcarauæ,  liable  lo  lits  of  self-absorption,  quick  in 
lempe,-,  keen  and  bitiug  iu  speech,  it  is  little  wonder 
that  his  school  hat!  not  prospered,  aud  that  after 
teachlug   Church   l.istory   for  uuiny  months  to  his 
pnpils,  one  of  these  misguided  students  was  under  the 
imp,e^io,i  that  the  monaskuies  we,e  destioyed  by 
Jesus  (  hr,sl.     Like  (Joldsmith,  he  w^us  driven  into 
Ueratuie  by  his  ncvs-sities,  and  would  gladly  enough 
have  escapec)  had  he  been  able.     0„e  would  like  lo 
know  what  Mere  Johnson's  tirst  impressious  of  that 


A 


JOHXsoxVs  Missrox 


27 


Htrunj;t*,  hsilf-luMuic,  half  blackguanlly,  tattcrd»'- 
iiialioii  world  of  Idlers  iiilo  wliUli  h«'  foiiiid  Iiiiiis4>lf 
intnMluccd.  Tlu'  «ivat  lij^ht  of  llie  'cntffman» 
M(i(/aziue  wiis  a  «fitaiii  Most-s  liiowii,  and  hiiii  he 
8JIW  il)  an  aK'hous(;  at  CUTkcnwell,  wnipped  iu  a 
hoi-sfiiiau'»  coat,  with  "a  gn-at  bushy,  luuotubed 
>vig,"  iniuh  obscured  iu  tobacco  snioke;  not  an  edi- 
fying  vision,  but  oue  to  be  treated  with  due  respect. 
liefore  huig  he  wius  to  tind  lueu  of  letters  in  far  woi-se 
quartei-s  tlian  an  alehousi^ :  Derrick  sleeping  in  a 
ban-el,  Savage  tinding  his  iodgings  iu  thi*  strwts ; 
Boyse  in  bed  clothed  with  a  blanket,  through  which 
holes  had  beeu  cut  that  his  arms  inight  be  thrust,  in 
which  pleasaut  position  Mr.  Boyse  was  accustonied 
to  coutiuue  his  liteniry  labours  with  a  somewhat  im- 
perfect  success. 

It  was  the  custoni  of  Boyse,  as  soou  as  he  earued 
auy  mouey,  to  spend  it  on  wiue  aud  trufiics,  after 
which  he  returued  to  his  blanket  and  dry  erusts,  with 
a  refreshiug  seuse  that  life  niight  after  all  be  worth 
liviug.  Drudgery  natnr.illy  bred  recklessuess ;  and 
the  darkuess  and  sordid  shifts  of  daily  huuiiliatiou 
were  occasioually  illuuiined  by  flashes  of  wild  gaiety 
such  as  this.  Aud  it  was  with  the  Boyses  and  Der- 
rieks  that  Johnson  must  needs  begiu  lus  literary  life. 
His  compauions  were  meu  who  only  occasioually 
knew  the  satisfactiou  of  a  full  meal,  and  whose  life 
alternated  betweeu  gluttouy  and  starvatiou.  If 
Johnson  had  ever  entertained  auy  romantic  notions 
of  the  glory  of  a  literary  life,  a  month  of  Cirub  Street 
was  aiuply  snfficieut  to  uudeceive  him.  But  Johnson 
from  the  first  had  a  perfectly  dear  vision  of  the  life 
on  which  he  was  embarking.  Romantic  idea.s  of  the 
pride  of  authoiship  did  uot  trouble  him  ;  he  said  with 


li-'  ■ 

f'  ■ 

k 


fl 


■% 


,  i 


28      THE  MAKKRS  OF  EXGIJSH  PROSK 

liluut  common-tHMiæ  thiit"iio  iimu  but  a  blockbead 
vwv  wrote  except  for  motiey."  Tbe  pi-oblem  wiw 
bi)w  to  gft  moiify  by  uiesiiiH  that  did  uot  iuvolve  a 
siu-rifice  of  hoiiour,  how  to  luaintaiu  his  independenee 
against  the  ædiution  of  the  patrou  oa  oue  haud,  aud 
the  bullying  extortiou  of  the  bookseller  ou  the  other. 
That  was  the  i-eal  ta.sk  whieh  Johnson  set  Iiiiuself  to 
aceomi)lish  :  to  ujake  the  world  uudei-stand  that  the 
work  of  a  nian'8  brains  was  as  worthy  of  remuner- 
ation  as  tlie  work  of  liis  hands,  and  that  amongmany 
prolessions  literature  is  not  the  k'ast  honourable,  uor 
the  least  productive  of  good  to  a  nation. 

Perliaps  Johnson  did  not  perceive  the  alm  of  his 
work  as  definitely  as  we  do:  it  is  not  the  soklier 
fighting  iu  the  thick  of  the  battle  snioke  who  knows 
best  how  the  fight  is  going.     It  is  pretty  certain  that 
Johnson   had  no  objection  to  patronage  in  itself. 
Why,  iudeed,  should  hel    That  the  man  to  whom 
fortune  hus  accorded  opulence  should  reeognize  that 
wealth  has  duties  as  Meil   as  privileges,  aud  that 
among  the  very  highest  services  wliich  wealth  can 
perform  for  a  country  is  that  of  fostering  and  develop- 
ing  genius,  is  in  itself  an  altogether  right  and  noble 
thing.     The  connection  between  a  Southampton  and 
a  Shakespeare  is  Ijonourable  to  both,  and  most  hon- 
ourable to  the  patron.     The  doctrine  that  literary 
men  should  shift  for  themselvcs,  and  that  in  the 
rough-aud-tumble  race  of  life  they  have  as  good  a 
chance  as  anybody  else,  is  very  well  for  facile  writeis, 
gifttHl  With  commercial  shrewdness  ;  but  in  its  appli- 
cation to  the  finer  spirits  of  linmanity,  it  comes  pcri- 
lously  near  Horace  Walpoh's  cynical  ssiyiug  that 
poets  are  like  singing-birds,  who  sing  best  if  we 
starve  them.     Would  it  not  have  been  a  good  thing 


'm 


■tt 


JOHNSON'S  MISSIOX 


99 


for  GoltlHiuith  if  a  patrøu  had  securwl  hini  eiweof 
niiud,  by  freeiug  him  from  those  sordid  tiai-cH  which 
wore  bis  life  out  at  six-and-forty  t    Have  thcre  not 
been  delicate  spirits  iu  every  age,  whose  genius  hsuj 
never  resu-bed  its  blossoming  time,  for  waut  of  some 
kiudly  sbelter  from  tbo  icy  winds  of  peuury  !    Tho 
false  pride  wbich  preveuta  a  man  from  æcepting 
kiuduess,  is  little  bctter  tbau  the  callous  heartlessuess 
wbicb  prevents  a  man  from  bestowing  it.     It  was  tbe 
false  pride  of  Chatterton  tbat  made  bim  refuse  a 
profllbred  meal  wbeu  he  waa  starving,  and  drove  bim 
iuto  suicide ;  but  a  Johnson  and  a  Carlyle  knew  bow 
to  i-eceive  graciously  as  well  as  give  geuerously,  and 
the  former  is  more  diflicult  than  the  latter.     No, 
it  wjis  not  the  pride  of  stubborn  indeiiendence  alto- 
gether  wbich  made  Johnson  repudiate  the  patron. 
He  dimly  felt  the  drift  of  bis  times,  and  pereeived 
tbat  tbe  day  of  the  patron  was  over.     Literature  had 
outgrown  tbe  patron,  aud  wauted  a  larger  air,  a 
freer    enviroumeut.    Tbat    same   democratic    force 
which  at  tbis  very  time  was  startling  Chatham  by 
the  return  of  timber  luerchants  to  Parliament,  and 
which  was  bi-eathiug  its  fiery  summons  through  tbe 
lins  of  Wilkes,  was  also  preparing  a  new  ora  for  liter- 
aiore.     Heiiceforth  books  were  not  to  be  tbe  solace  of 
tbe  rich,  but  the  inheritance  of  the  common  people, 
and  in  the  counnon  people  authoi-s  were  to  find  a  far 
moi-e  munificeut  public  than  in  the  select  circles  of 
the  titled  aud  th3  wealthy.     The  day  was  uearly  over 
when  Cowper  darcd  not  speak  of  Bunyan,  lest  so  de- 
spised  a  nanu'  should  earn  a  sneer.     Tbo  roign  of  tho 
common  poo])le  was  commeucing,  and  the  barriei-s 
which  had  hithcrto  divided  authors  from  tbe  public 
were  about  to  be  broken  down.     Johnson  was  the 


i 


kH 


m 


tmmak 


t     ; 
f    i 

it  i 

il -i 


3»       TfIK  MAKKHS  OF  KXfJLlSH  PRosK 

last  griiit  KiiKlishnmii  wh»  enduml  the  «oiitj.iupt 
whiih  luMl  btHMi  iuwociat*Hl  With  uutlionship;  aud  it 
was  th.'  advent  of  the  deiiioeiaey  whi(;h  fietd  authur- 
ship  frnia  reproaeli,  and  threw  opeu  to  it  the  gates 
of  a  worldwide  liberty. 

The  siguiiicauce  of  Samuel  JohiiNon  in  litemture 
hes  lor  118,  tlien,  iu  this  oue  faca,  that  it  was  he  who 
proelaimed  the  Republic  of  Utters,  and  in  him  a 
iiteiaiy   revolutiou   centitd.     Two    perioiis  met   iu 
him  :  he  was  tlie  hujt  man  of  the  oue  an«l  the  Jirst  of 
the  otlier ;  the  la«t  great  Euglish  author  who  wrote 
«iedieations  to  wealthy  patrons,  aud  tiie  tirsc  to  esist 
himself  bohlly  ou  puMic  appi^^iation  for  support. 
How  Johnson,  Tory  as  he  wsis,  ut  hust  wiis  goaded 
luto  active  rebellion,  and  proclaimed  in  steutoriau 
tones,  whieh  still  vibnite  ou  the  eam  of  men,  this 
new  Kepublic  of  Letters,  we  all  know.     Wheu  he 
wrote  his  celebrated  letter  to  Lord  Chesterheld,  sjiy- 
iug,  "Seveu  years  have  now  passed  sinee  1  waited  iu 
youroutward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door," 
and  went  on  lo  deseribe  a  patron  as  oue  who  "looks 
With  uneoucern  on  a  man  struggliug  iu  the  water, 
aud  when  he  has  reaehed  the  ground  eueumbei-s  him 
With  help,"  Johnson  rang  the  death-knell  of  patrou- 
age.     It  waii  a  noble  letter,  worthy  of  the  man  aud 
the  oeejisiou,  breathing  the  spirit  of  pioud  independ- 
ence,  and  touehed  also  with  a  sort  of  rugged  pathos, 
esjjeeially   in    thosti  eouelnding  ei»igrammatic  sen- 
tences:  "The  noliee  whieh  you   have  been  pleased 
lo  lake  of  my  labonrs,  had  it  been  early,  had  Im'.u 
kind  ;  bul   it  has  Ikhmi  delayed  till  I  am  indilfereul, 
autl  eaunol  enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solilary,  aud  eanuol 
imi)art  il  ;  lill  I  ani  knowu,  and  do  not  waul  i(.     I 
hope  il  is  no  very  eynical  asperily  not  to  coufessobli- 


H 


.l()nNS()X'S  MIKSIOX 


31 


gat  ions  wIhmv  nu  iKiUfiit  Iuih  Iwfu  n'<M'ivHl,  or  to 
Ih>  iinwilling  that  thu  publii;  Hhould  eouHider  me  >iM 
owing  to  il  p»trou  thut  which  Providenw  Ium  enabUnl 
mt!  to  do  (ov  my8i'lf."  That  letter  nmrkM  an  epoeh  iu 
KiiKlish  literature.  It  is  the  vigorous  birthcry  of  a 
iiew  power:  the  Magna  Chaiia,  if  yoii  will,  of  au- 
thor  ;  its  Deehiiation  of  In(h'pendenee,  whith, 
like  another  simihir  tloeument  of  modern  time»,  He<>ms 
to  state  in  no  doul)tful  toues,  not  that  American 
slaves,  but  tiuit  English  writers  an-  then,  heneefor- 
wanl,  and  forever  frtHJ.  It  wius  in  vaiu  that  JolniHou 
sigiied  that  lett^T,  "  Your  Lordship'8  most  humbie, 
most  olK'dient  servant,  Sam.  Johnson"  :  heneetorth 
he  Wiis  no  man's  servant,  and  not  olK'dient ;  he  htul 
eleete«l  lO  stand  or  fall  by  his  own  genius,  an<l  had 
inaugurated  a  revolt  not  less  important  to  the  world, 
peihaps,  than  John  Wilkes'  riots,  or  even  Freneh 
Uevolutious. 

Perhaps,  iu  a  minor  degree,  that  was  not  a  less  sig- 
niticunt  serviee  to  literutuiv  whieh  Johnson  performed 
when  he  kno(;ked  ilown  Thomas  Oslrørni',  the  t>ook- 
seller,  with  one  of  his  own  folios,  for  daring  to  bully 
him  for  negligenee  in  some  miserable  haek-work  he 
had  undertaken  for  him.  That  a  p(K)r  author  slumUl 
knoek  down  a  bookseller  wjis  ('crtainly  as  startling  to 
sliiibby,  <lim  eyed,  dnulgiug  Grub  Htreet,  as  that  he 
shoiild  insult  au  earl.  It  was  mueli  like  a  schoolboy 
\vh(>  had  beeii  sent  up  to  be  thraslied,  turning  round 
upou  the  master  and  tinasliing  liim  instead  ;  and 
wjus  receiv«'d  with  the  sjime  speeies  of  jubilation. 
The  folio  with  which  this  prodigi»)Us  act  was  per- 
lormetl  is  still  in  existence,  aud  should  certaiuly  be 
preserved  sjs  bterally  one  of  the  «nost  liimous  instru- 
ments  by   which   liberty   has  been  achieved.     For 


n  I 

il 


,iåi^ 


tammdmmiim 


'  * 


}■    i 

I 


32      TIFK  MAKKR8  OF  KNGLI8II  I»K()SE 

whon  I  he  w<)rHt  hiM  tn>t^n  wtid  HlMtiit  piitrotiM,  thw  in 
Btill  woiw  tliuj  iiiifriit  In^  wriU«n  ubout  publiHlu-ix 
If  it  wiTf  »  hiinl  tliiiiK  lo  rut  lli«  bmul  of  ( Uurlty  at 
a  pjitron'K  tiih!»-,   it  wjw  iiiconleMtahly  u  hunliT  t« 
earn  oih''h  l)mMl  uniid  the  niiMitiouM  tijuloMiuen  of 
PateinmttT  Kow.     TIh-iv  w.-rw  i)ul)U«hiTH  wiio  w«'ro 
hoiiounibli',  and  even  geiurou»,  m  Johii«ou  twtiliwl ; 
but  tlim;  were  otluw  of  tlie  fJriffltl»  HpecieH,  wlio 
bought  uwu  \\kv  (ioUlwiiith  at  so  luiich  a  wwk,  and 
^    w  rich  and  vwu  kt-pt  two  «'un  iagt-s,  iw  Ih  reportt'd 
of  (Jiiffitli,  l)y  tiu'  lurnitivc  procttw  of  MWcating  p«)or 
authoi-H.     Not  lesH  ignorant  tlian  rapaciouts  nimIi  mi.n 
kii«w just  1'nough  of  lH>okM  to  p«'rceiv«'  tiiat  tliry  niight 
bt^  pnMluciKl  f(.r  ijttl.'  and  sold  at  a  g(MMl  proflt,  and 
th«'ir  funttion  wiis  to  pi<k  the  hniiuH  of  anthors  and 
then  kick  theii-  «kulLs  down  Paterno.sttr  Kow.     Their 
cont«'nipt  for  literaturi'  Meut  far  to  make  literatui-e 
itself  conteniplibU-,   and   tlie  faniished  (Jrub  SInet 
driidge  might  well  look  back  to  tlie  days  of  patronage 
aH  to  a  shiuiug  Panidise,  and  feel  tliat  the  mostsconi- 
ful  charity  of  the  patron  was  better  thau  the  dull 
avarice  of  the  haek  Ijookw^Uer.     This  in.-  .i  noe  of  t  lie 
nnui  to  whom  literature  was  known  only  as  a  eom- 
niercial  eommodity,  Johnson  had  also  to  fight,  which 
he  literally  did  when   he   knocked   down  Oshorne. 
His  tjusk  was  a  lianl  one  :  it  was  to  con  vi  nee  a  reluc- 
tant  world  tliat  the  man  who  wrote  hooks  de,servetl 
M  of  mankind,  that  he  would  uo  longer  be  co:t,.nt 
'      »rk  for  nothing,  that  he  wjis  about  to  enierge 
is  sordid  Inferno  and  Valley  of  Humiliatiou, 
iuid  liecome  a  power  fo  Iw  reekoneil  with,  and  that 
henceforth    he  would  vigorously  refuse   to   bare  his 
back  to  the 


■    -f 


Pi 


j       ; 


JOHNSON'8  MISSION  88 

Whipa  and  KonM  ut  time, 
The  npprpNior'H  wronK,  the  pmnd  tunn'*  oontomelj, 
The  insoleiicf  uf  ofTloe,  aml  the  «purns 
Whiob  petient  mt.' A  e(  the  unworthy  takee. 

Alone,  unuiUvd,  oskiiig  ueither  charity  nor  pity, 
JohnHon  H(>t  hiuiNelf  to  biH  appoiuted  task,  and  op- 
jKmni  to  the  «hocks  of  timo  aud  fate  a  8tubl)oru,  uu- 
vanquishablo  patience,  altogethor  noble,  memorable, 
and  heroic.  If  to-day  the  man  of  lettere  is  honoured 
and  even  opulent,  if  it  bo  hi»  great  vocation  to  mould 
the  niindH  of  myriads  thv  ugh  the  prem,  and  to  preach 
in  a  necuhir  tempie  an  de  as  the  horizons,  it  wjw 
old  8aniuel  Johnson  who  won  for  him  this  liberty, 
and  by  his  poverty  aud  sorrow  made  luauy  rich. 


iii 


il 


Ått 

i 


in 


t! 
i? 


:        1 


ill 


u  I 
ii  I 
I  \ 


BOSWELLVS  JOHNSON 

THE  story  of  Johuson'8  life  has  been  told  by 
many  writers,  writiug  from  various  poiiits 
of  view,  am'  with  varioiis  degrees  of  iii- 
sight  and  sympathy,  but  it  bas  uever  failed  to  be 
iuteresting.  Macaulay  hjus  given  us  his  Meissonnier- 
like  picture  of  the  man  and  his  times,  a  brilliant  por- 
traiture  from  the  oiitside  wrought  up  with  consum- 
mate  patieuce  of  detail  and  vividuess  of  colouring. 
Carlyle  has  given  us  his  sketeh  of  the  moral  signifi- 
cance  of  the  man  and  his  times,  by  virtue  of  his 
intense  insight  aud  sympathy  going  far  deeper  than 
Macaulay,  and  touching-in  his  portrait  with  more 
lifelike  reiilism  and  effect.  Other  and  minor  hands 
have  agaiu  and  again  assumed  the  tsisk,  and  few  have 
altogether  failed,  beeause  the  man  himself  is  so  full 
of  interest  that  it  is  hardly  possible  for  any  one  to  be 
quite  dull  in  writiug  of  him.  Bosweirs  Life  of 
JohmoH  has  h<'ld  its  i)la('e  for  a  century  as  a  classic 
biography,  aud  is  not  likely  to  be  displaced.  It  is 
one  of  the  few  books  which  a  man  would  choose  for 
lifelong  companiouship,  a  book  which  fascinates  the 
scholar  and  student  not  less  than  the  comnion  people 
who  run  and  read.  It  has  the  superb  merit  of  being 
graphi<^  and  alive  in  its  every  detail.  Boswell  has 
no  need  to  describe  his  hero :  we  see  him  f«)r  our- 
selves.  Thej"e  is  no  reticence  about  James  Boswell ; 
he  tells  us  all  he  kuows.     His  worship  for  his  burly 

34 


B()SWELL'S  JOHNSON 


35 


hero  is  touchJDg  iii  ils  thoroughutvss  aud  siniplicity. 
H«  is  quite  willing  lo  acknowledge  that  his  oue  func- 
tiou  in  life  was  to  gathtT  up  the  scattered  conversa- 
tioual  gems  o!  D-.  Johnson,  aud  he  reckous  it  a  tsisk 
worth  liv.  u;  for.  V^ai'  as  he  is,  he  has  no  vanily  in 
the  presei  ce  of  his  i<!>i.  He  is  his  most  devoted 
humble  8e(  iiut.  Ile  <  njoys  beiug  insulted  by  John- 
son more  than  he  w  on  Id  relish  beiug  flattered  by  any 
other  man.  All  other  men  he  reckous  to  be  poor 
creatures  beside  the  surly  old  philosopher  of  Bolt 
Court,  aud  he  is  at  no  paius  to  conceal  his  estimate 
of  them.  The  result  of  this  hero-worship  on  the  part 
of  Boswell  is  a  book  which  has  interested  the  English- 
speakiug  people  of  the  earth  for  a  ceutury,  and  seenis 
likely  to  interest  them  for  many  a  century  to  come. 
Mr.  George  H.  Lewes  has  said  that  Boswell' s  John- 
son was  a  sort  of  test-book  with  him  ;  according  to  a 
man's  judgmeut  of  the  book  was  the  judgment  he 
foiiued  of  him.  And  he  has  also  said  with  equal 
felicity  and  truth,  that  "  the  charm  and  value  of  such 
a  work  must  be  in  the  delightfully  dramatic  convor- 
satious,  crowdcd  with  wit,  humour,  and  wisdom  ;  and 
in  the  moial  significance  of  the  picture  thus  preseuted 
of  a  noble  soul  struggling  with  difficultics,  moral  and 
physieal,  a  stroug  and  affluent  nature  in  which  many 
iuflrmities  were  blendod." 

Johnson  was  a  great  author  in  more  senses  than 
one,  but  wheu  we  name  Johnson  we  think  of  the 
man  rather  than  of  his  writings.  Not  that  his  writ- 
iugs  ai-e  uot  worth  careful  perusal.  There  are  lines 
in  his  poetry  which  have  become  classical,  and  there 
are  pages  in  his  essjiys  which  are  unmatched  in 
their  own  ponderous  and  elaborate  eloqueuce.  His 
Dictionary  is  a  monument  of  indefatigable  industry 


.»■! 


I 


11 


III  : 


1] 


1    I 


3«J      TIIK  MAKIOUS  OF  KXdLKSII  IMiOSK 

Jiiul  criticsil  iU'uiiU'ii.  lUs  Lires  of  the  PocIn,  iianow 
aud  uusympatlu'ti(*  nu  tlicy  are  in  wrtaiu  es.stuitial 
points,  are  ueverthelcss  iioMy  <'oiit'eive<l  and  nobly 
written.  Cast  off  a«  they  were  with  lapidity  aud 
ejuse  by  a  man  who  uo  longer  bad  a  r«*putation  to 
make  nor  penury  to  fear,  they  are  less  stilted  than 
his  earlier  writiug.s,  aud  are  in  every  way  more  vivid, 
more  graceful,  and  more  perfect  in  structure  and 
workmanship.  But  wheu  we  have  said  all  that  can 
be  said  about  Johnson's  voluminons  writings,  we  are 
still  tiM'e  to  face  with  the  strange  phenomeuon  of  a 
man  whose  reputation  as  a  writor  is  forgotten,  still 
living  in  the  imperishable  regard  and  interest  of 
posterity.  For  this  singular  state  of  things  Boswell 
is  auswerable.  But  for  Boswell,  Johnson  would  uow 
be  a  mere  shadow  and  a  memory.  But  Boswell, 
when  he  took  it  upou  him  to  dog  and  eavesdrop  the 
sti'ps  of  Johnson,  to  repoit  his  convcrsations  and 
treasnre  up  his  witlicisius,  redcemed  Johnson  from 
the  decay  which  has  fallen  on  his  contemporarios  aud 
postponed  for  him  indefinitely  the  oncroachmeuts  of 
oblivion. 

When  we  ask  what  it  is  that  has  made  Boswell' s 
book  a  great  elassic,  we  are  bound  to  concede  to 
Boswell  himself  the  credit  of  having  inaugurated  a 
new  style  of  biography,  conccived  with  true  origi- 
nality,  and  cari-ied  out  with  conspicuous  success. 
Toady,  sycophaut,  bniggart,  eavesdropper — all  these 
and  more  Boswell  may  have  be«'n,  but  he  had  one 
great  gift,  the  faculty  of  recognizing  greatne&s,  and 
of  suppressing  himself  in  the  i)resence  of  greatness. 
His  introduction  to  Johnson  w:is  not  auspicious,  and 
a  piomler  man  would  have  ke<'nly  resented  Johnson's 
mode  of  receptiou.     "  It  is  true,"  sjiid  Boswell,  with 


BOSWKLIAS  JOIIXSON 


37 


gr<':it  humilily,  " I  am  a  Scotdmuin,  biit  I  «•ini't  lulp 
it.'"  "Thai;  is  what  a  {;ivat  iiiany  olyoiir  ((nuitry- 
lucii  laiiuot  belp,"  ietoit«'d  Joliiiison.  3Iore  tliau 
onee  Johuson  tired  of  his  sytopliancy,  aud  on  oue 
occjisiou  sjiid  to  him,  "  You  Lave  only  two  subjects, 
uiysflf  and  yourscli;  and  I  am  sitk  of  both  of  them." 
On  another  oceasiou,  wheu  they  were  discussing  how 
to  get  rid  of  au  uwkward  frieud,  Johnson  said, 
"We'll  send  you  to  liim.  If  your  preseuce  doesu't 
drive  a  man  out  of  liis  house,  uothing  will."  John- 
son alternately  lectured,  bullied,  aud  quizzed  him,  all 
of  Mhieh  IJoswell  endured  with  exemplary  meekness, 
for  had  he  not  the  memory  of  Ihat  beatific  hour  when 
Johnson  said,  "  I  liave  tåken  a  faucy  to  you  "  ;  aud 
wjis  not  that  sufficient  to  cncourage  aud  fortify  him 
under  the  worst  caprices  of  his  hero?  It  was  the 
very  iusignifieance  of  Buswell  that  gave  him  his 
uuique  fitness  for  the  post  of  Johnson' s  biograi)her, 
Johnson  stood  ou  no  ceremouy  with  him  :  he  never 
restraiued  himself,  he  concealed  uothing,  he  foUowed 
his  var'  -'•;e  whims  as  he  pleased,  without  any  un- 
easy  ti  "  being  observed,  aud  in  faet  disported 

himseb  .,  an  unrellectiug  abaudonment  which 
dis])layed  the  wliole  man.  Johnson  had  no  company 
manuers  for  anybody,  but  it  is  pretty  certain  that  he 
talked  in  the  preseuce  of  Bosmx-U  with  a  freedom 
whicli  he  felt  in  no  other  prestnice.  The  i-esult  of 
this  strange  comnideship  was  that  Boswell  saw  John- 
son with  a  completeness  which  was  grauted  to  no 
other  man,  and  his  biogniphy  is  a  vivid  portraiture 
of  Johnson  in  sUl  his  moods.  We  see  him  in  his 
domestic  as  well  as  his  public  life,  in  his  i)rejudice 
aud  narrowness  as  well  as  his  uobility  and  sym- 
pathetic  breadth  of  nature,  in  his  chivalry  and  rude- 


r  5 


■I  -  s 

■    >  f 


II 


il 


lÉMMÉÉli^ 


HÉiMli 


►'« 


*      t 


li  I 


38      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLI8H  PROSE 

nass,  v.is  piignafity  and  kindliucss,  his  stronguiiiuled- 
m\ss  iiiid  Huperstitiou,  his  irascibility  and  patience, 
the  hnniorous  cynicisni  of  his  public  talk,  and  the 
(Kncejilwl  and  shamefaced  charities  of  his  private 
life.  To  this  uninterruptod  and  niinute  study  of 
Johnson,  Boswell  devoted  the  best  years  of  his  life, 
aud  behind  that  seemingly  foolish  face  of  his  there 
was  concealed  an  extraordiuary  vigilance  of  observa- 
tion  which  was  capable  of  producing  with  photo- 
graphic  exactitude  all  that  passed  across  the  ai-ea 
of  its  Vision.  The  singular  merit  of  BoswelPs  book 
is  that  we  always  see  ^^e  hero  and  never  think  of  the 
author.  "We  are  ann  ;  ed  by  no  tedious  dissertations 
on  Johnson's  charac'  ..jd  merits;  Johnson  is  his 
own  expositor,  and  hves  and  nioves  before  us  with 
extraordiuary  reality  and  vividuess.  It  is  these 
qualities  which  make  Boswell'»  book  the  greatest  of 
biographies,  and  which  justify  us  in  describing  this 
idle,  vainglorious,  Scotch  gossip  as  the  father  of  all 
modem  biography. 

There  is  even  something  in  the  very  simplicity  of 
Boswell  himself  which  is  fascinatiug.  He  reveals 
himself  with  th*^  same  unconscious  art  with  which  he 
paints  Johnson.  He  makes  it  abundantly  evident 
what  a  terrible  bore  he  often  pro  ved  himself,  aud 
half  of  Johnson'8  smartest  sayings  were  provoked  by 
the  irritatiug  interrogatories  of  Boswell.  When 
Boswell  grew  sentimental  and  talked  of  retiring  to  a 
desert,  Johnson  instantly  suggested  Scotland  to  him 
as  a  suitable  locality.  When  he  ruefully  informed 
Johnson  that  the  wine  he  dmnk  overnight  had  made 
his  head  ache,  Johnson  sarcastically  replied  it  was 
not  the  wine  which  made  his  hejid  ache,  but  the 
sense  he  had  put  into  it.     "  Will  sense  make  the  head 


BOSWEIj;S  JOHNSOX 


39 


acho?  "  s;iid  Boswell.  "  Yea,  sir,  if  you'rp  not  used  to 
it,"  retorted  .loliusoii.  Tliose  continuid  gihe«  against 
tiui  Scot<'h,  w\\U'\\  atlordwl  JohiiHonN  frieinls  ha)  niuch 
amusement,  woie  more  ott<Mi  tliaii  not  devisj-d  for 
Boswi'!!'»  t)eiu'fit.  When  a  Scottrhruan  apoioj^izt^d  for 
Scotlaud  by  .siyiug  God  made  it,  Jolinson  repiied  that 
''comparisons  were  odious :  God  ma«'e  hell."  The 
first  uight  he  waa  in  Edinburgh,  Boswell  and  he 
walked  arm  iu-arm  up  the  High  Street.  "  Vv^ell 
now,  doetor,  we  are  at  hust  iu  Scotland,"  stiid  Bos- 
well. "  Yes,  sir,"  wjis  the  answer,  "  I  sn-.ell  it  in  the 
dark."  Wheu  Boswell  pressinl  him  to  admit  that 
there  was  at  least  plenty  of  meat  and  drink  in  Scot- 
land,  he  repiied,  "  Why,  yes,  sir,  meat  and  drink 
enough  to  givc  the  inhabitants  suffieient  strength  to 
run  away  from  home."  It  was  one  of  his  habitual 
jokes  that  the  finest  prospeet  a  Scotehman  ever  saw 
was  the  road  that  led  him  to  England,  and  when 
some  one  once  siiid  that  England  wius  lost,  he  retorted 
that  it  wjus  "  not  so  mueh  to  be  lameuted  that  England 
was  lost  as  that  the  Seotch  had  found  it."  He  was 
reeonciled  to  Wilkes  by  u  story  whieh  that  astute 
demagogue  told  him  of  a  privateer  whieh  had  eom- 
pletely  plundered  seven  Seotch  Islands,  and  siiiled 
away  witli  the  booty  of— three-and-sixpence.  It  must 
have  eost  Boswell  something  of  a  patriotic  pang  to 
narrate  these  stories,  but  he  never  luisitated  to  narrate 
any  sort  of  gibt^,  either  against  his  country  or  himseli, 
if  it  only  illustratod  the  wit  and  humoui-  of  Johnson. 
The  wonderful  thing  is  that  with  all  his  admiration 
of  Johnson,  he  never  tried  to  soften  in  the  narratiou 
those  asperities  of  speech  from  whieh  he  raust  ofteu 
have  suffered.  He  reveals  Johnson's  defects  with 
the  same  simplieity  with  whieh  he  reveals  his  own. 


( 


li' 


fl; 


.j^- 


I -r' 


\ 


40      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

Wheii  Hiinuah  More  entreated  hiui  to  delet4'  from 
his  biogniphy  the  stories  which  showed  Johnson'» 
temper  at  the  roughest,  he  replied,  *'  I  will  not  make 
my  tiger  a  rat  to  please  anybody."  This  real  love  of 
truth  which  distinguished  Boswell  was  his  most  mem- 
orable  quality,  and  it  wrought  in  him  an  unconscioua 
artistic  insight,  out  of  which  there  was  produced  a 
book  which  is  still  unrivalled,  unapproached,  and 
perhaps  unapproachable. 

The  charm  of  Dr.  Johnson  lies  in  his  uncurbed  and 
fearless  individuality.     When  he  emerged  into  forne, 
thost»  peculiarities  of  demeauour  and  temper  which 
had  always  made  him  grotesque  were  too  deep-seated 
and  long-indulged  for  modification,  nor  did  he  seek 
to  modify  them.     In  his  long  and  solitary  struggle  he 
had  suflFered  much,  and  suffering  ha<l  given  edge  to 
his  temper  and  asperity  to  his  speech.     In  those  hard 
and  bitter  years,  when  he  had  been  as  famished  as 
Derrick  aud  as  badly  housed  as  Boyse,  when  he  had 
lain  in  spouging-houses,  aud  had  huddled  behind  a 
screen  in  au  eating-house  that  his  rags  might  not  be 
observed,  he  had  learned  many  lessous,  and  chief 
amoug  them  this— an  iudepeudeuce  of  soul  which 
utterly  refused  to  be  imposed  upou  by  the  caut  aud 
couventionalities  of  life.     He  had  learued  to  see  men 
in  their  native  worth,  or  worthlessuess,  aud  crouched 
and  fawaed  to  no  man.     He  had  fouud  greatuess  of 
soul  in  the  outcast,  and  littleness  of  soul  iu  the  gi  eat ; 
heroism  hiding  under  rags,  and  meauuess  concealed 
under  coronets.     Such  experieuces  had  developed  his 
natural  power  of  insight,  his  bluntness  of  speech, 
his  fearlessuess  of  the  conventious  of  society.     When 
he  told  men  to  clear  their  minds  of  cant,  he  rccom- 
mended  a  process  by  which  he  himself  had  profited. 


BC)SWELi;s  JOHNSON 


41 


He  aimed  at  ploasing  iiobody  by  his  oiviliti  ><.  aiul 
fouciliatiiig  nulwxly  by  his  fiicndship.     If  he  tl.uiight 
a  uiau  wafi  a  fool,  be  told  him  so  with  uuconipro- 
luising  candour.     Wheu  some  om-  ilt-feudod  driiikiiig 
because  it  drove  away  care,  and  laade  meu  foig«>t 
what   was    disagi-eeable,    Johuson    nitortcd    to    the 
qnestion  whethe    he  would  uot  ailow  a  man  to  drink 
for  tuese  reasoud,  "Yes,  sir,  if  he  siit  uext  yoM." 
When  an  antiquated  beau  asked  him  what  he  would 
give  to  be  as  sprightly  as  he  was,  "  Wliy,  sir,"  was 
the  reply,  ''I  thiiik  I  would  almost  be  couteut  to  be 
as  foolish."     Wheu  a  lady  congratulated  him  on  the 
absence  of  uasty  words  from  his  dictiouary,  his  acute 
but  uncomplimeutary  retort  was,  "Ob,  then  you've 
been  looking  for  them,  have  you?"     The  uoblest 
element  iu  the  strange  conglomerate  of  Johusou's 
nature  was  this  uutamable  honesty.     He  had  ptissed 
at  a  single  step  from  Grub  Street  to  the  society  of  the 
wealthy  and  the  scholarly,  but  he  retaiued  amid  the 
iuceuse  of  daily  flatt«ry  the  ssime  resolute  iudepend- 
euce  which  had  supported  him  iu  the  loug  outlawry 
of  his  beggary.     He  had  brought  with   him  from 
Grub  Street  also  many  habits  which  wore  quite  as 
startliug  jis  the  freedom  of  his  speech.     It  is  uot  diffi- 
cult  to  understand  how  Mrs.   Boswell  reseuted  his 
overbearing  manner,  his  uncertaiu  hours,  his  strange 
voracity,  his  method  of  snuffing  candles  with  his 
fingere,  and  dropping  the  wax  upou  the  floor.     But 
he  was  no  less  strange  an  apparitiou  lu   the  well- 
ordered  house  of  Mrs.  Boswell  thau  he  was  iu  society 
itself.     There    he    was,   a    rough,    uutamable    man, 
irascible,   dogmatlc,   conteutious,   saying  things  no 
ouo  else  would  dåre  to  say  even  if  he  could,  doiug 
things  that  were  permitted  to  no  other,  aud  u»eu 


f 


•— J-. 


42      TIIE  MAKKRS  OF  EXCJJSIl  PROSE 


WJlit 

iiol): 


kc  or  Ifavo  liiiii  us  thry  i.leiwwl.     Jiut  ihvrv 
in  hiiii  il iiivm  kiiMlly-l» utinj,'  Iit-art,  a  luggwl 
nS  (»f  naluiT,  a  laiulM'iu  y  of  pure  Kfniiis,  phiy 
Il  fitfiil  sphiKioiir  over  all  his  «hought ;  aml  fi.r 


thm-  ihii.Ks  lucn  ini;,Mif  «,11  loigiv.',  ;w  thr  most  dis 
ft-ruing  tliU,  (lefectsof  uiamier  aud  iletiiåeucies  of  tein- 
l)er  and  btdiaviour. 

Another  reason  whicli  hm  contributed  to  tlie  lastine 
popularityof  Jolmsou  isthat  he  wius  a  typical  Engli.sh- 
man.     He  was  what  would  Ih?  called  lo-day  a  Philis- 
Uue.     He  had  no  more  respect  for  litcrary  than  social 
couventious,  and  outragcd  both  with  the  .sime  ener- 
getic  delight.     He  was  full  of  prejudice,  thoronghly 
lusuhir  iu  Lis  liabit  of  thought,  and  narrow  in  the 
area  of  his  vision.     He  applietl  the  test  of  blimt  com- 
mon-seuse  to  everything— i-xcept,  perhaps,  the  Cock 
Lsine  ghost.     And  yet  suoh  is  the  huniour  with  which 
he  clothes  all  his  opinions,  that  the  very  insularity  of 
Johnson  becomes  a  new  eharm,  and  his  prejudiees 
delight  us.     He  gloried  in  the  fact  that  he  had  ae- 
complished  siugle-handed  a  work  over  which  Fr<'nch 
lexicogniphers  had  exhaustetl  yeai-s  aud  numbers ; 
but  theu,  "What  eau   you  expect/' said  he,  "  from 
fellows  t  hat  eat  frogs  ? ' '     He  said  that  the  tlrst  Whig 
was  the  devil,  and  when  he  wi"  te  Parliamentary  rc- 
ports  he  always  took  eare  that  *'  the  Whig  dogs  shonld 
get  the  worst  of  it."     He  at  ouce  absolved  from  un- 
charitableness  a  man  who  was  throwing  snails  iiito 
his  neighbour's  garden,  when  he  found  his  neighbour 
was  a  Whig.     He  brought  the  sjune  prejudiees  iiito 
play  iu  his  literaiy  criticisnis.     When  he  wsus  asked 
if  h(^  thought  any  other  man  could  have  written  IMae- 
i>her^>u's  Oman,  he  replicd,  '^  Yes,  sir,  manv  m.-.., 
mauy  women,  aud  many  ehildren.''     Gray  was  dull 


BOSWKLL'S  JOHNSON 


43 


in  coinijsiiiy,  dull  in  his  clo8<'t,  dull  everywhero : 
wlu'11  ho  wioUi  his  |><h^uis  hv,  wsis  simply  dull  in  a  n«'w 
w  iiy,  and  that  mside  iKK)ple  think  hini  groat.  Whei» 
Honie  one  claimed  for  David  Hunu'that  he  wiwatlorst 
liimiuuu.s,  Johnson  ivplicd  (hat  undoubt4)dly  he  hai  1 
light— just  cnough  to  light  him  to  hell.  He  s<iw  no 
beauty  in  Percy'»  Ancient  Untjlitth  BuUadH,  and  ridi- 
culed  the  simplicity  of  their  metre  in  the  well-kuown 
parody : 

As  witb  my  bat  upon  my  head 

I  walk'd  aloDg  the  Straud, 

I  there  did  meet  auother  luan 

With  his  bat  in  bis  band. 

For  some  obacure  reason  he  hateil  Miltou's  Lycidxin, 
and  when  Miss  Seward  told  him  she  had  read  it  with 
a  delight  that  grew  by  what  it  fed  on,  and  asked 
what  waa  to  become  of  her,  he  replied,  "Die,  then, 
in  a  surfeit  of  bad  taste."  In  relatiou  to  art  and 
music  he  displayed  the  same  obstinate  dislikc  to 
conveutional  opinions.  When  a  yonng  lady  trietl  to 
secure  his  admiration  for  the  music  she  had  just 
played  by  sayfng  it  wjis  difficult,  "Difficult,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  would  to  heaveu  it  had  been  impossible! " 
So  one  mi<rht  go  on  recounting  stories  which  atford 
ample  illasi ration  of  the  Philistinism  of  Johnson.  In 
all  these  stories,  however,  two  tliings  are  obvious  :  the 
workings  of  a  strong  but  prejudiced  m  id,  so  careless 
to  conceal  its  defects  that  its  very  can  our  is  humor- 
ous ;  and  a  power  of  shrewd,  piercing  common-sense, 
which  is equally  succeasful  in  ascertaining  the qualities 
and  defects  of  men  and  things,  and  in  tlie  exposition 
of  both  is  entirely  unrestrained  by  any  consideratious 
of  average  and  conveutional  opinion. 


«•1 


If 
([ 

fl! 

If 


mtm 


fr 


■I  \ 


I    I 


I' 


iM  ' 


44      THK  MAKKRS  OF  KXCJIJSJI  IMIOSK 

Thf  hiuiumr  of  Dr.  .lolmsou,  spi  iii;rj„j,  .^^  j,  ^i^.^^ 
from  intdlertual  foir»-  niu\  U-iiig  buwd  oii  sWvlum 
fonmion-Henst',  is  |)n-ci.s».|y   thai   Hpi-fifs  of  luiiiioiii- 
which    ;lu>  KuKliMhnian  never  fails  to  ivli.sli.      It  is 
ofteu  rudi-  and  toukIi,  hut  it  alwaysf;o«'s  to  tliepoint, 
and  puts  to  mut  the  adversjiry.  '  TIu'  oddity  of  the 
whole  perfornianee  in  that  wheu  Johnson  htusdelivered 
liiH  most  knockdown  sort  of  retort,  he  is  never  con- 
wious  that  he  hjis  been  rude  at  all.     He  was  not  a 
wnsitive  man,  although  he  was  a  man  of  dw«p  feeling, 
and  he  had  uo  couipsussion  to  spare  for  the  pangs  of 
wonnded  vanity.     He  even  prided  hinj^lf  on  being  a 
paitieularly  galhu.t  and  polite  num.     If  he  was  not 
exactly  thaf,  we  niay  at  least  8;iy  that  there  was  no 
lualice  in  his  wit.     He  usually  fought  for  the  mere 
sake  of  vu-tory,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  loved 
these    coutroversial    battles    for   their    own    sake. 
Nothin-r  delights  him  so  much  jis  to  find  a  foeman 
worthyni  his  steel,  or  we  might  more  appro]>riately 
say,  of  ins  bludgeon.     His  controversial  battles  were 
all  <'ondu('t«'d  upou  the  pattern  of  his  famous  tussle 
With  Thomas  Osborne.     When  he  had  knocked  Os- 
borne  down  he  exclaimed,  "  Lie  tlu^e,  thou  son  of 
dnllness,   ignomnee,  and  obscurity"  ;  and  he  fnrther 
obs«M-ved  to  the  trucnlent  booktieller  that  he  need  be 
111  no  huny  to  rise,  for  when  he  did  so  he  proposed 
kickiug  him  down-stairs.     Ho  always  aimed  at  dis- 
ablinghis  adversiiry,  and  when  hisblood  was  up  never 
stopped   to  consider  wliether  his  words  would  hurt. 
Johnson' 8  wit  is  no  sharp  rapier  thrust,  no  splendid 
feneiug;  it  has  no  delicjiey,  uoironical  bauter,  locon- 
eealed  satire,   nothing  of  that  elusive  lialf-meaniug 
whieh  makes  Swiffs  wit  sosearchingand  formidable. 
He  uses  the  most  terse  and  stinging  phrases,  and  is  a 


I   V 


ROSWKI.I/S  .lOIlNSOX 


45 


nuinter  in   tlu;  sut  ol"  f(Jv«Tiii«  his  advt-miry   with 
ridinilf.     Ami  yet,   howevor  himl  lu-  liits,  his  epi 
gniiiiH  uri!  8o  bsithwl  in  panuloxiial  hnnioiu-,  that  it  i» 
inipos   l)le  to  Im?  Ht-uiusiy  otnndcd  wKli  hini.     Even 
when  he  is  in  hismost  ronlnwlictoiy  and  prijudicetl 
niood,  it    is   nirely  tlmt   we  cannot  n-cognizo  somo 
redeeniing  quality  of  good  senso  in  his  criticisms. 
Many  of  liis  sjiyings  havo  tho  sentontions  wisdorn 
of  proverlw,  as,  for  instanco,  wh«Mi  ho  said  lu  refer- 
ence to  theological  dispuUvs  that  tlio  mau  who  wonhl 
not  go  to  lioaven  in  a  green  coat  wonhl  not  get  thci-e 
any  quicker  in  a  gray  ono  ;  and  when  he  coniparc<l  a 
preaching  wonian  to  a  daacing  dog— tho  wonder  wjis 
not  that  the  performance  was  well  done,  but  that  it  wjis 
done  at  all.     He  could  even  acceptthe  laugh  when  it 
went  against  hinist^lf  with  a  surly  gnu,'c.     liut  it  must 
be  owned  that  this  was  a  rare  occurnmce.     He  was  tho 
very  Napoleon  of  conversation.  moving  with  lightning- 
like  rapidity  uponhisadvei-sjiries,  and  defeating  them 
in  detail.     He  over whel med  t  liem  with  the  sheer  bril- 
liance  and  velocity  of  his  attack  ;  with  all  his  nuuw- 
iveness,  was  far  too  alert  ever  to  l)e  eaught  napping ; 
and  vis  t ed  with  tho  most  siimmary  castigation  any 
oue  who  was  foolish  enough  to  sui)pose  him  capable 
of  such  stnpidity. 

But,  after  all,  no  mere  description,  however  vivid 
and  incisive,  can  paint  Samuel  Johnson.  For  the 
perfect  portraiture  of  Johnson  we  must  go  to  Bos- 
welPs  ponderoas  book,  and  there,  readiug  slowly 
and  many  times,  till  the  inipression  has  bad  time  to 
satnrate  itsr""  into  the  memory,  we  shall  at  last 
Mnd  the  figure  of  the  old  doctor  emergiug  from  the 
shadows  of  the  past,  with  all  the  freshness  and 
vitality  of  an  immortal  creation.     Gradually,  as  we 


1 


in 


I: 


•'■>•-  -»■' 


h 


11 


[.  r 


4«5      TIIK  MAKKKS  OF  KXCHJSil   PRO.SK 

l.K,k   Ummtsh    H<»hw«.||'h  pjip-H  iw  throiiKli  a  inujfic 
nysiiil,  the  inJHts  urt' witlulruwn,ainl  ull  tliat  stranp', 
nowtUtl,  fiwciuatiiijj  lift'  of  the  eiKhtwnth  contiiry 
traiiKjutx  lt*«'If  ajfJiiii  lH>ft)r«'  oiir  eyen.     \VV  «•<>  (lu» 
o!<l  «liib  imuii  whfit'  Hurke  and  KeynoldH,  H»'aiuh'rk 
aiHl  (Joldsmith  an'  fainiliar  fates:    we  hear  (Jold- 
smilirM  iuoUe.st  .siK'e<'li,  liiiike'.s  sonorouH  eloquenre, 
Johnsoirs  HU'nt(»iiaii  verdiets,  while  Iteynold.s  listens 
With  attentive  trumpet,  and  Reauelerk  smiles  witJi 
sjitirie    mirth,   and    Hoswell    nibs    his    lian 's    and 
ehuekles  at  tlio  smart  thrust  and  parry  of  his  hero. 
We   ft)llo\v  Johnson   as   he  sjdlies  ftuth  into  Fleet 
Stn'et;    wo    laugh    at    the  superstilious  care  with 
whieh  lio  touehes  the  posts  in  passing;   and  there 
is  molMture  iu  our  ey«'s  as  we  see  him  stoop  to  put 
a  <oin  into  the  hands  of  sleeping  ehildren,  whose 
outeast  lives  know  no  softer  plllow  tlian  thesfones 
of  London.     Wo  st;»;  him  do  a  stranger  and  nobler 
thing  still  :  from  those  tilthy  kennels  he  lifts  a  dis- 
eased    and   outeast   woman,   and   earries   her  away 
npon  his  back  to  that  old  house  in  I?olt  Court,  whieh 
is  already  an  asylum  for  all  si»eeies  of  distress,  that 
he  niay  there  nurst?  her  baek  to   life  and  virtue. 
AXTiat  strange  depths  of  tenderness  and  eompassion 
f  heie  are  in  the  heart  of  this  old  st.tieal  philosopher ! 
Who  else  would  ever  have  stood  barehea<le<l  in  the 
rain,  amid  the.jeers  of  a  maiket  place,  beeause  forty 
years  lM'fon'  he  liad  theiv  inflided  an  unkindn«s8 
upon  a  father  long  sime  deadl     How  nmny  other 
famons  men  of  lett<'i's  have  we  had  who  would  liave 
watehed  beside  a  servaiifs  siek-bed  as  he  watehetl 
beside  the  bed  of  Catheinie  Cliambers.  have  ealled 
lier  his  dear  friend,  aud  have  written,  "I  tlien  kiss«'d 
her.     She  told  me  that  to  part  wsuj  the  greatest  pain 


f  i    i 


1:1; 


B()SWKLL'S  JOIINSOX 


47 


Klie  Lml  oviT  Mt,  aiiil  tiuit  .sl».  li(.i><><I  we  shouia  imn-t 
iiKsiin  ill  ;i  belter  plan-.     1  .xiuvsmhI,  with  swelh-d 
«■yt»    sumI    gmit  emotiuii   of   trii.lt-nii.ss,   the  muiu; 
hoiHt*.     W.,  kijwed  uiul  i.iuteU  ;  I  hmubly  hope  to 
lucet  «gaiu  mul  to  pail  iio  more."     It  i.s  for  thiugs 
like  thew  thjit  we  h)ve,  aml  can  never  eejwe  to  love, 
JSaumel  Johnsou.      Well    niiirht  Gohlsiuith  sjiy   of 
hini  that  there  wa.s  nothinj,'  of  the  bear  aiboiit  him 
Imt  the  xkiii.     IliilUen  under  that  umouth  exterior, 
Ihat  seaiu.d  face  anil  shal)by  tlress,  there  wiw  not 
nierely  a  «reat  genius,   hut  a  great  naMire,  a  pro- 
foundly  relighais,  npright,  heroie  soul.     "The  world 
pa,sses  away,  and  we  are  passing  with  it;  but  thero 
KS  doubtlesH  another  world  which  will  endure  forever. 
Jn  the  nieantiu.e  let  us  Ir.  kind  to  one  another,"  he 
writes  in  one  of  his  last  letteix     il  is  linal  thoughts 
were    how  to  arrange  an  ainniity  for  his  servant 
Fiank,   and    having    found    that  fifly  i)ounds  per 
aniunn  Wius  consideic-d  a  handsome  legacy  from  a 
nol)lenian  to  a  favourite  wrvant,  he  resolvtd  to  leave 
Frank  siveniy.     To  the  hist  his  soeial  nature  niani- 
fested  itself.     He  tilled  his  sick-room  with  friends, 
and  wheii  Unike  fearcd  the  numlHT  might  be  op- 
pn>s8ive  to  him,  he  replied,  '*  I  must  be  in  a  wretched 
stått!  indee<l  when  your  eompany  would  not  l)e  a  de- 
light  to  me."     IJurke  replied  with  the  tremulousness 
ot  unshe<l  teai-s  in  his  voice,  "Dear  sir,  you  have 
always  bwn  too  good  to  me."     Ile  did  not  disguise 
his  honest  love  of  life,   his  hone-st  dread  of  death  ; 
but  he  who  had  kiiown  how  to  enduiv  the  one  with 
fortitude    learned   how   to   meet   the  other   without 
disuKiy.     To  him,  iw  he  lay  dying,  men  and  womeu 
nune  for  benediction,  and  his  hust  words  were  lo  siiy 
to  such  a  visitor,  a  young  girl  in  the  freshuess  of  her 


1! 


48      THE  MAKERS  OF  EXGJ.ISH  PROSE 

maidenhood,  *'  God  blesa  you,  my  dear."  Such  was 
Samuel  Johnson,  a  great  man,  and  what  is  more 
than  that,  a  good  man;  one  of  those  rare  spirits, 
who  not  only  do  mueh  to  illiimine  the  minds  of  men, 
but  who  do  more  still  to  kindle  and  sustain  their 
best  impulses,  aud  whose  memories  thus  become  a 
glory  and  au  iuspiratiou. 


il! 


';» 


IV 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

Born  at  Flallaa,  Jreland,  Nov.  10  17M      p,m.:u^j  ^i    «... 

I^^l  ^"^7*  «cited  by  Dr.  Johnson  has  been 
great  and  laating,  not  less  permanent  is  the  in- 
it  di^       ,^l^»c^  attaches  itself  to  Goldsmith.    But 

thmgs  the  strong  man,  a  Hercules  wrestling  with  his 
^ven  labours,  rude  and  rough,  but  rai^ly^irthan 
heroic  in  a  stolid  and  indomitable  fashion,'^nd  above 
all  a  humourist,  whose  humour  wa«  a  wipon,  wi[h 
which  he  fought  his  way  to  fortune.     He  teSs  usTiat 

ragged    female    beggar   gave    of  hereelf-^an  old 
struggler  "  ;  and  he  was  touehed  because  the  phrase 
apphed  Itself  with  curious  felicity  to  his  own  aL^ 
litt.    We  are  fascinated  with  the  spectacle  of  Johu- 
^n  ^rmjng  h,s  way  onward  t«  esteem,  as  we  should 
be  With  the  spectacle  of  a  forlorn  hope  pushing  its 
way  upward  against  flaming  battlements :  he  touches 
he  soidier  instinct  in  us.     But  Goldsmith  was  nott 
strong  man,  nor  a  wise  man,  nor  a  successful  man. 
His  quahties  were  precisely  those  which  do  not  hein 
a  man  o  overcome  the  world,  but  through  which  the 
world  IS  able  to  inflict  severe  suffering  and  much 
secret   torture.      His   two  dominant  chara.>terS 
were   s.mplicity  and    sensitiveness,   and    the  hard 
discipline  of  life  never  taught  himhow  to  barter  tie 

49 


i 


f 
It 


I 


f 


I   I 


:  '( 


50      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

oiie  for  worldly  sbrewduesis,  or  the  other  for  worldly 
callousuess.  It  was  his  simplicity  which  Walpole 
jt-ered  at  when  he  called  him  "au  inspired  idiot"  ; 
it  was  his  sensitiveness  which  laid  hiiu  opeu  to  luauy 
of  those  couvei-sational  disabilities  which  Boswell  re- 
coimts  with  such  malicious  glee.  No  experience  of 
the  venomous  jealousies  of  the  world  ever  cured  Gold- 
suiith  of  his  uative  habit  of  wearing  his  heart  upou 
his  sleeve  ;  no  experience  of  the  iugratitude  of  the 
world  ever  soured  the  native  kindliness  of  his  nature. 
In  sweetness  of  heart,  in  tenderness  of  feeling,  in  all 
that  constitntes  charui  of  character,  Goldsniith,  with 
all  his  faults,  was  and  still  remains  the  most  lovable 
man  whom  English  literatm-e  has  produced. 

The  whirligig  of  Time  brings  strange  revenges,  and 
it  is  one  of  the  revenges  of  Time  that  the  very  qnali- 
ties  which  were  the  secret  of  Goldsmith's  eartlily 
troubles  are  now  the  sources  of  his  farne  and  fasciua- 
tion.  A  soft,  unfading  radiance  clolhes  him,  and 
our  hearts  go  out  with  unfailing  affection  towards  one 
to  whom  we  owe  so  much.  For,  in  a  wider  sense  thau 
we  can  readily  conceive,  the  simplicity  and  sensitive- 
ness of  Goldsmith  were  the  forces  which  shaped  all 
the  really  memoniblc  work  which  he  has  done  in 
literature.  Who  but  a  teuder-hearted  man  could 
have  written  the  Deserted  Vlllage,  who  but  a  man  of 
guilelcss  simplicity  could  have  wandered  through 
those  many  sharp  experiences  which  find  such  delight- 
ful  reflection  in  the  TraveUer^  Shf  Stoops  to  Coyiquer, 
aud  the  Citizen  of  the  World  ^  More  thau  any  other 
writer  of  his  time,  more  even  thau  professetl  uovelists 
like  Smollett  aud  Richardson,  Goldsuiith  drew  upou 
the  woalth  of  his  owu  experiences  in  all  that  he  wrote 
of  abidiug  interest.     Noue  but  a  simpleton  would  have 


y^ 


OLIVEll  GOLDSMITH  51 

mistaken  a  .s,j„ire'«  l.ous,,  for  an  inn,  but  o.,t  of  tint 
ludicrous  mi.ulveuture  hi.  best  co/uedy  wL  bo  u 
^oue  but  a  man  of  iueradicable guileles«ues«  oTnah^ 
would  bave  eutertaiucMl  the  idea  of  fluting  his  w  ^ 
throngh  Enrope,  but  the  fruit  oftho.se  stmuge  wand^f 
ings  wa^  o„e  of  the  loveliest  aud  most  perSrpoem; 
in  Enghsh  literature.  A  mau  less  sopLtirt^iTn  ? 
world-haniened  thaa  Goldsmith  coT"h"e 

htoiy  ou  whieh,  to  quote  a  phrase  of  Buuyau'^  ''the 

very  dew  of  heavea  is  still  fresh."    It  may  be^hat  in 

he  ordznary  seanse  Goldsmith  was  not  a  wise  man 

but  there  is  a  frequent  wisdom  in  simplicity  which  is 

It  18  th.it  for  the  production  of  the  most  delicit.^ 
bloom  Of  literature  the  childlike  mind  is  «"ald 
Goldsmith  v-.s  an  eternal  child.    Amid  all  the  ^10 
and  violent  influences  of  his  time,  he  still  retaS 
some  hing  of  the  ehild's  divine  innocenee  .and  gr": 
the  child'8  sensitivenoss  and  impressiouability   and 
for  us  he  po^ssesses  also  all  the  child's  lovabLSf 
If  he  occasionally  manifested  also  the  foibles  andX 
pet  ilance  of  the  ehild,  the.se  are  faults  whieh  can  b^ 
readi ly    forgiven    him.     Without    the    foibL     th^ 
harmless  egotism  and  amusing  vanity,  the  love  of 
fine  dress  aud  ineapaeity  of  understun  ling  ti  e  duty 
of  paying  for  it,  the  careles^s  generosity,  the  total  S 
o  prudencc,  the  unforcs^ving  pleasure  i'n  the  hour,  tht 
gay  negkH-t  of  the  le..sons  of  the  p.ust  and  the  s  crn 
"on.t.o„s  of  ,h..  future,  he  wouhl  not  be  (Jo  InH 

.ut.  letne,  and  who.se  tbily  is  mor,,  endearing,  thau 
the  heroism  aud  wisdom  of  fm-  greater  men. 


,j 


''k 


=j 


f 


v 


r 


I 


/!  I'  i 


i  \ 


I  ' 


52      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

The  lifo  of  Oliver  Goldsiiiith  iniiy  he  described  as  a 
prolonged  misiulventure,  a  comedy  with  tragie  shad- 
OW8  always  lurkiug  iu  the  bsickgrouiid,  a  tragedy  lit 
up  to  the  very  Ijrøt  with  suuuy  flashen  of  comic  mirth. 
What  a  series  of  inimortal  pictures  glow  before  iis,  iu 
liviug  vividness  and  colour,  as  we  read  his  history  ! 
From  the  first  our  syuipathies  go  out  to  the  little, 
ugly>  pock-marked  child,  uuder  whose  clumsy  de- 
meanour  so  rare  a  spirit  is  concealed.    We  laugh  at 
his  innocent  college  excesses,  his  elation  in  the  pos- 
session  of  a  guinea,  his  prodigal  wanderings,  and  re- 
turn  on  his  "  fiddle-backed  Rosinante,"  li  is  excuse 
that  after  so  much  trouble  to  reach  home  his  mother 
might  at  least  have  been  glad  to  see  him,  his  futile 
eiforts  to  study  law  and  medicine,  his  still  more  futile 
attempt  to  become  a  cleric,  his  reckless  generosity, 
his  insouciant  philosophy,  his  light-hearted  way  of 
following  delusive  hopes  and  attempting  foolish  enter- 
prises.     There  was  never  so  lovable  a  ne'er-do-weel, 
so  innocent  a  prodigal.     But  it  often  happens  that 
our  laughter  comes  perilously  near  to  tears,  and  the 
picture  of  Goldsmith  standing  in  the  shadows  of  the 
Dublin  streets  listening  eagerly  to  some  street  hawker 
singing  his  songs,  is  as  immortal  in  its  pathos  as  the 
picture  of  Goldsmith  spending  his  last  guinea  in  buy- 
ing  tulips  for  his  uncle  Contarine  is  immortal  in  its 
humour.    Throughout  the  1  i  fe  of  Goldsmith  the  pathos 
and  the  humour  go  together,  and  the  ludicrous  and 
tragic  chiise  each  other  in  his  history,  as  cloud  and 
sunshine  in  an  April  firmament.     To  him,  however, 
that  was  often  enough  tnigic  which  is  ludicrous  to  us. 
In  the  world's  grcat  s<'lioo!  he  was  one  of  those  awk- 
ward  scholars  whose  fate  it  is  always  to  l>e  imposed 
upou  by  shrewder,  and  bul  lied  by  stronger,  natures. 


OLIVKR  OOLDSAflTH  53 

Like  all  «eusitive  i,eo,>le  he  h:u\  a  jjix-at  eupacity  for 
love,  a  tbirat  tor  reeoguition  wl.ich  Ihe  uudisceriiinK 
mistook  for  vanity,  a  desire  for  sy.npathy  which  the 
<-al Ous  interprefHl  a«  egotistu.     Even  Johnson  mis- 
uuderstood  and  was  unfair  t*.  him,  and  otten  caused 
imi  pc>,gnant  if  unintentiouai  pain.     No  one  else 
truHl    to    understand    him,   and    no  one  took  him 
senously.     To  the  membera  of  the  Litemry  Club  he 
was  what  he  had  been  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  at 
Dr.  Milner'8  Aeademy  at  Peckham,  at  Mr.  Gritfiths' 
dingy  shop    a    person    of  no    particular  aecount, 
whose  amiableuess  invited  iniposition,   and  whoæ 
awkwardness  was  a  theme  for  ridicule.     Those  who 
knew  him  best  had  recognized  his  genius  so  little. 
that  when  he  published  the  Traveller,  it  was  dilfieult 

He  was  throughout  life  the  butt  of  inferior  wits,  and 
m  the  arte  which  seeure  earthly  success  was  eom- 

olw^r^f  ""^  '^^  "'^"^^  '"^'"'  ^«^"-  ^^  ^-^  - 
finast  wit,  but  ,t  was  not  at  command  ;  he  had  genius 
and  eloquenee,  but  an  invineible  awWardnr^i  d 
tmndity  preventcnl  the  display  of  either  when  their 
display  would  have  won  him  respect.  Tu  conver^- 
tion  he  was  like  a  man  who  has  a  purse  of  gold,  but 

wanted  at  the  moment.  The  «.me  illustration  may 
be  apphed  to  his  entire  life.  With  a  heart  rich  iil 
Z^T'  r  """^"'^  ineomparably  wealthy  in  noble 
u^ilities,  he  possessed  nothing  of  that  exterior  fasei- 
nation  by  whieh  friendship  is  iuvited  and  retained. 
Misunderstood,  repulsed  in  his  affections,  tlie  hunger 

theiefore  to  Ins  loss,  but  to  our  infinite  gain,  he  trans- 


es f  m 


h' 


54      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PR08E 

ferr«'d  his  love  to  tho  creaturcs  of  his  faney,  and  let 
Hk-  restraiued  kindliuess  aud  yeuriiing  of  his  nature 
overliow  in  pagtw  whioh  are  tlie  deliglit  of  the  world 
to  day,  not  less  for  their  literary  bcauty  than  for  their 
mord  tenderuesH  and  sweetness. 

If  Goldsmith'8  life  had  been  less  chequere<l,  if  he 
had  possessetl  personal  chanu  as  well  as  genius,  his 
writiugs  would  have  been  very  difiei-ent,  aud  possibly 
we  should  miss  much  that  is  our  delight  to-day.     He 
was  so  inteust^ly  individual  that  the  retlectioii  of  his 
own  life  is  seeu  in  everything  he  wrote.     Even  in  his 
meauest  hack-work  we  eoiue  ever  aud  agjiiu  on  psis- 
siges  sjitunited  with  personal  ftHiliug,  passjiges  which, 
like  sonie  still  pool  in  a  barren  nioorlaud,  hold  in 
their  depths  the  cloudtnl  blue  of  his  own  tmubled  life. 
It  is  not  only  in  his  private  letters  that  he  talks  of 
stjirviug  in  the  streets  of  Loudou,  where  Otway  and 
Butler  starved  l)efore  hini,  and  sjiys  that  no  one  caies 
a  farthing  for  him.     Buried  in  the  reviews  whieh  he 
wrote  for  Griffiths  in  the  earliest  period  of  his  drudg- 
ery,  we  iiud  senteuces  like  these,  which  at  once  arrest 
the  ear  with  the  ring  of  personal  experience :     "The 
regions  of  teiste,"  sjiys  he,  "can  be  tra veiled  only  by 
a  few,  and  even  those  fiud  indifferent  aeeonimodåtiou 
by  the  way.     Let  such  as  have  not  yet  a  pjussport 
from  Nature  Ixi  content  with  happiness,  aud  Icave 
the  poet  the  unrivalled  possession  of  his  niisery,  his 
garret,  and  his  farne."     Here  again,  in  his  Lujidn/ 
info  the  State  of  Leaniing,  is  a  passage  which  is  too 
clearly  wruug  from  his  own  bitter  knowledge  of  life, 
aud   is  but  too  faithful  aud  prophetic  a  transcript 
of  his  own  career.     He  sjiys  that  the  author  is  "a 
elii/a  of  the  public  in  all  rcspects  ;  for  while  so  well 
able  to  dircct  others,  how  iucapabie  is  he  frequently 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  55 

fouud  of  dii-ectiug  himself!     His  simplicity  exposes 
lum  to  uli  the  iusidioiisappioaclu^ofcunning;  his 
«Mmibility  to  the  slightest   iuvasions  of  contcmpt 
Broken  rest,  tastelesB  lueuls,  and  causeless  anxiety 
8hort<3u  his  life,  or  reuder  it  uufit  for  active  employ- 
raeut ;  prolonged  vigils  aud  iuteuse  application  still 
further  conti-.itt  his  span,  aud  make  his  time  glide 
lusensibly  away.     Let  us  not  then  aggr  ,vate  those 
uatural  ineonveuienccs  by  neglect :  we  have  had  suf- 
ficient  iustauces  of  this  kind  already.     It  is  euough 
that  the  age  has  alieady  produt-ed  instances  of  men 
pressing  foi-emost  iu  the  lists  of  farne,  and  worthy  of 
better  tunes,  schooled  by  continual  julversity  into  a 
hatred  of  their  kind,  flying  from  thought  todruuken- 
ness,  yielding  to  the  united  pi-essure  of  labour,  penury 
aud  sorrow,  sinking  unheeded,  without  one  frieud  to 
drop  a  t«ar  on  their  unatteuded  obsequies,  aud  iu- 
debted  to  eh.Tity  for  a  gmve."     He  cannot  even 
write  his  Nttiural  HMury  without  this  touch  of  heart- 
felt  humanity  .--The  lower  race  of  animals,  when 
satisfied  for  the  instant  moment,  are  perfectly  happv  • 
but  It  is  otherwise  with  man.     His  mind  anticipate^ 
distress,  and  feels  the  pang  of  want  before  it  arrests 
him.    Some  cruel  disorder,  but  no  way  like  hunger 
seizes  the  unhappy  sufferer,  so  that  almost  all  those 
men  who  have  thus  loiig  lived  by  chance,  aud  whose 
every  day  may  be  cousidei-ed  as  a  happy  escape  from 
tamme,  are  known  ai  last  to  die,  in  realitv,  of  a  dis- 
order caused  by  hunger,  but  which  iu  the  common 
language  is  often  callod  a  broken  heart.     Some  of 
these  I  have  known  myself,  when  very  little  able  to 
reheve  them  ;  and  I  have  Ihkju  told  by  a  verv  active 
and  worthy  magistrato,  that  the  num'ber  of  such  as 
die  lu   Ix>ndon  of  waut  is  much  greater  thau  one 


n 


å 


]\¥  il 


I 


t  ■ 


56      THE  MAKEKS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

would  imagine— I  thiiik  lie  talked  oftwo  thoiisxud  a 
year."     In  pasjsages  like  thest*  we  have  not  ouly 
gleams  of  poetry  and  pathos,   but  we  have  Gold 
8mith'8  own  life.     All  the  reward  he  obtained  for  his 
poetry  was  his  misery,  his  garret,  and  his  farne. 
Tasteless  meals  and  mean  distresses  in  Green  Arbour 
Ck>urt,   threats   of   arrest  from  Griffiths,   miduight 
vigils  and  ill-paid  drudgery,  a  life  whose  every  day 
was  a  happy  escape  fi-om  famine,  were  the  jictual  ele- 
ments of  Gold8mith'8  lot,  aud  woi-e  hie  streugth  out 
in  the  very  prime  of  liis  years.     That  strange  dis- 
order  called  a  oroken  heart,  of  whieh  two  thousjind 
persons  died  annually  in  London,  iucluding  some  he 
had  known  aud  could  but  little  relieve,  was  his  des- 
tined  end  also ;  for  were  not  his  last  words  the  con- 
fession  that  his  mind  was  not  easy  t  and  was  it  not 
that  united  pressure  of  labour,  penury,  and  sorrow 
whieh  weighed  him  down  into  the  gravet    How 
mueh  does  it  say  for  the  true  nobility  of  Goklsmith^s 
nature,  that  hard  as  his  life  was,  one  of  its  unhappy 
results  at  least  he  never  knew  :  l  ,     -ver  flew  from 
thought  to  drunkenness,  or  was  sehooled  by  adversity 
iuto  a  hatred  of  his  kind. 

There  is  another  respect  also  in  whieh  the  uoble- 
ness  of  Goldsmith's  nature  was  displayed.  He  had  a 
higher  vision  of  the  functions  of  a  man  of  letters  than 
even  Johnson  had,  and,  with  far  less  natural  sti-eugth 
of  character  than  Johnson,  was  equally  sturdy  in  the 
maintenance  of  his  own  honour  and  independence. 
\Ve  are  a^customed  to  praise  Marvell  for  refusing  a 
king's  bribe,  and  Milton  for  turning  his  back  upon  a 
king'8  messenger,  but  in  Gold8niith's  life  there  oe- 
curred  an  equally  striking  but  less-known  sc«ne. 
We  have  seen  that  while  men  of  genius  starved,  po- 


OLIVKIl  (iOLDSAIITII 


67 

lili<Hl  paiuphlea^..,,  of  tJu,  „„,uK,st  alMlifins  roIU.!  in 
«ixury.  a,.,l  tlu^ti  eaiue  a  tiu.e  whe»  the  (iovvvuuwut 

Sal?  ^1  ?  '"'  ^""  "*■  ''"'"''*""''^-     '^''-  '"»-"  '^ 
Ha,M  w.<.h  h.u  u  <*ruun  Panson  Sc-ott  ,u.  dmplaiu,  aud 

8<ott  w;«  «ent  to  Gok. .uith  t«  iuUuce  lum  t«  write  iu 

r^onrot  the  adnunistration.     ^  I  fou.ul  hha,"t.  " 

toU  l,ua  ,ny  autho.ity  :  I  toIU  hi.u  that  I  wa«L. 
IH)HeuHl  to  puy  most  liUnally  lor  J.is  oxertions,  uuU 
^vould  yon  believe  it,  ho  w.us  so  al,surci  a«  to  s.?v  "l 

wutng  for  auy  party;  the  ju^istauce  you  offer  is 
tho,.3iore  uuuecessary  to  n.e.'  Aud  ho;-  «aid  the 
reverend  pleuipot^utiury,  with  uustiutecl  coutempt' 
x  left  him  lu  his  garret."  What Goldsmith'8  exa«t 
eamings  were  at  this  time,  it  would  be  int.restiug  tr 
know:  what  sum  it  h.«  that  he  fouud  sutfieieut  for 
b  «  waut« ;  but  we  kuow  that  this  offer  cume  at  the 
elose  of   welve  yea,.'  desperate  struggle  f<,r  bVe^ 

fir.:;;  H  't  ""^  ^^"••'^  ^'^^^  "-''"^  ^«»  "•^'' 

P  oh  ,  aud  the  Vavr  of  Wakrfir/a  had  boen  .sold  for 

he  had  made  despairing  atteuipts  to  free  himself 
from    he  uusought  yoke  of  literature,  aud  hadTus 
descnbed  himself :     '^Yeai.s  of  di.s^tp^oiutmeut,  au 
ginsh,  aud  study  have  worn  me  dowu      Imagiue    o 

Si  ?  r^'  ""'"^'''•'•^  ^■*^^^-'  -i^'>  t- 1>  ^ 

wnukles  betwee»  the  eyebrows,  with  au  eye  dis 
gnstiugly  severe,  and  a  big  wig  ;  aud  you  have  a  per- 
leet  Picture  of  my  preseut  appearance."  It  was  this 
»uiu,  who  had  toiled  like  a  galley-slave,  aud  with 
searcely  more  houour,  who  had  piodneed  so.ue  of  the 
iiui«t  thiugs  iu  English  literature  for  the  wages  of  a 


r 


^t&mm 


«8      TIIK  MAKKKS  OF  EXGIJSH  PKOSK 


■(  *i 


li  I' 


]mU'r,  who  hud  lx-*'!!  biiinlUHl  Irom  pillar  to  jiohI  by 
lHM)kf*ellt'i-H  uiiU  tHlitoi-8,  husll<'(l,  biilliiHl,  thmitt'iu'«l, 

Jl    IlliSi'IllbI«.    ilnniirv   whoH.'    v.    ly    liiiiiiliai-H  WCIO    i^r. 

uomiiiy  aiHl  hunger— it  wjw  this  iimii  who  wuh  uow 
ti^mpttti  With  tho  visiou  of  opuleuce,  aud  Le  rufuwtl 
it.     It  may  seeiu  little  euough  to  sorne  ears  to-day  to 
say  that  Goldsuiith  refused  to  seil  hi»  pen  to  a  party, 
but  l-t  U8  meiwui-e  the  teuiptatiou  rightly  that  we 
may  rightly  mwwuro  the  herøiwn  of  the  refiisal. 
There  were  few  writers  of  that  time  who  wonid  not 
have  welcomed  the  Reverend  ChapUiin  Scott  on  such 
an  errand.     In  niauy  a  gsuret  not  more  miserable 
than  Gold8niith'8,  his  advent  would  have  seemed  like 
the  birth  of  light  itself  after  long  darkuess.     Had  he 
goue  to  Chatteron'8  garret  in  Brooke  Street,  Holboru, 
he  would  have  been  weleomeil,  for  Chattertou,  boy 
as  he  was,  had  measured  the  world  with  eynical  cor- 
mtnms  enough  to  sjiy  that  any  man  was  a  fool  who 
eould  not  write  on  both  sides  of  a  question.     Neither 
Slarven  uor  Milton  was  trietl  by  so  terrible  a  test  as 
this,   for   ueither  touched  the  depth  of   misenible 
poverty  in  whieh  Goldsmith  dwelt.     Yet  forlorn  as 
he  was,   Goldsmith   was   proof  against    the  '    ibe. 
Much  as  he  had  lost  in  the  long  struggle,  he  >,     not 
lost  self-respeet ;  broken  as  he  was  in  hope.     e  wjus 
not  broken  in  noble  pride :  with  prompt  maguanimity 
he  said  ''No"  to  Parsoii  Scott,  and  that  covetous 
intriguer  and  pluralist  left  him  to  his  misery,  his 
gan-et,  and  his  fåme. 

Horace  Walpol(>  once  siiid,  with  characteristic  cox- 
combry,  to  a  correspondent,  ''You  know  how  I  shun 
anthoi-s,  aud  would  never  have  l)een  one  myself  if  it 
obligetl  me  3  keep  such  bad  company,  "xheyai-e 
always  in  earuest,  aud  thiuk  their  profession  serious. 


OLIVKU  (JOLDSMITH 


5» 

uiMl  .hv..|l  ui.ou  trilles,  aiul  nvemu.,  learninu       i 

;"«l.    at    all    tlu...    ,|.in,^s    an.l    <liv.Mt     .  tlf '« 

VN  IHU  (Joldsmitl.  Kina  tl..Mloor„po„  Parsou.Ct  i,. 

1'7  •>'";^:"  •'"'  last  dWinit.  «Hwl.i.hlK>u,HlUn  to 

ut  ut  last  he  iKul  vonu.  to  sc^^^that  autho.-ship  was 
the  oue  v.K.ut.on  for  whu-h  hewas  supi^MuHy  itt  ^ 
a.ul  he  re«ar<lea  it  wIth  sc.iou.s,u..s  an.l  ear.iX^  ' 
The  spoe.aI  litnj^  of  Cioldsn.i.h  for  au.ho..hipl  ;i.; 

«o  thmj^s,  ana  the  ll.st  of  these  w;«  «tyle.  He 
toueluMl  nothiag  that  he  .lid  not  uUoru  :  if  he  ImU 

tte  h''Tn  "^""n"'  ''"'^  '^  ^^"«  "ouiorethuu 
the  truth.  Where  d.d  this  careless  idlor,  this  un- 
«•holarly  seholar,  this  poverty-striekeu  waif,  pici"  p 
^0  .seeret  of  his  sty  le  f  We  do  not  know  and  an  not 
ell,  for  ,u  truth  literary  style  is  born  and  not  «nu  e 
kiZ^."     '"';'"'"'  ""  •"  -nversation  and  t- 

en  than  he  was  at  onoo  master  of  a  most  deli<.ate 
.    "onr,  a  rare  felicity  of  thou«ht,  a  dietion  o^  X 

qu  s  te  punty  an<I  .Maee.     Opon  where  we  will  h. 

Godsnnth  we  c-ome  on  pa.sa«os  as  elear  as  rnnnini; 
ate.^  and  .ts  f„ii  of  refreshing  music.     He  nev^r 

^  es  to  be  eloquent :  all  is.simplo,  natural,  u„affect:Hl 

pol  sh  of  phra.se  that  we  fM  i„  every  line  the  skill 
of  the  true  artist.  When  he  «lid  that  if  Johns.)» 
hacl  wr.ten  of  little  flshos  he  won.d  have  made  Z.; 

IJ  "'.  '"'  ^•^'"•''•^  '"^  *''«  faultof  Johnson's 

pjose-its  weans(,nie  pomponsness,  its  artifieial  and 
|,  .UHl,o.se  protensiou.  But  «oldsmith  oould  n.ake 
"ttle  hslu^  talk  like  little  lishes;  in  ot her  Mords,  he 


I ,:. 


Ill 


^jta^^^^i^AM 


É  I 


!  h 


■     ■  'i 


( 


60      THI    MAKERS  OF  EX(JLI8H  PKOSK 

wiw  tiutsUr  m  ,  iM.rfrrtly  Nupplo  «nd  lucul  ntylv,  aml 
alwiiys  vi-o'.  .,ol  „„Iy  «iH,  enguKiuK  «implicity,  hut 
With  a  trut«  ardsti."  iH-m-ption  of  tl.«  adiipt^itiou  of 
the  iiu^UH  to  II.  .,M|.  A  iKTfcH-t  tliiiMh  chttnut*Tiz«, 
even  hi«  mo.,  ,„ty  u,hI  light ly.cou«idered  work. 
HiH   Anmu'^  I    A.rure  wa«   little  better  thaii  httck- 

WOl-k,   hut  !,.!..,«   psuwiijrt^    lik,.   „,jj,  .   ..  jj  ,g  j,^^ 

laiulsciiK',  1..  ,Muvv,  th..  Kohleu  bmik  of  d  «v,  the 
(•ontest  upu.  ti  .  .  thorn,  thr  flu;to,ingf,-o,n  hmiich 
to  hranch,  •  •  ....  .«  i,  ti  iiir,  m.d  the  auMworiuK 
of  iH  you.^,   M..U  ^,,,.   ,,j,,,,,  ^„^  -j^^  ^^.^« 

roliMh.     Til...    un.t,..«     npixneeach  other,  aiKlmwe 
the  miud  to   t  sta.     ..  the  highost  yet  most  harmle« 
exulfatiou.     :.othh,-  >.n.  in  this  situatiou  of  miud 
be  more  ple:«inK  thai.  to  8,h'  tlie  lark  warbling  od 
the  wmg,  raising  jts  not,-  its  it  soars,  uutil  it  seems 
08t  in  the  immens,.  heights  above  us ;  the  note  eou- 
tiuuing,  the   binl   it«elf  unstH-n ;  to  m-i,  it  then  de- 
8c«ndi.i«  With  a  Hwell  as  it  comes  from  the  elouds,  yet 
sinking  by  d^-gn^-s  jls  it  approaches  its  nest,  the  spot 
where  all  its  atfections  aiv  (vntrcnl,  thr  spot  that  hiis 
pronipted  all  thisjoy."     ijexv  is  the  hand  of  thetme 
aitist   who  writes  well  Ixicause  he  finals  exquisitely, 
and  whose  phnises  have  the  spontaneous  eloquence 
which  springs  from  true  ft^liug,  alike  cliarming  to 
the  intellwt  and  the  heart.     In  freshuess,  elegance, 
prace  of  style,  Gohlsmith  htus  few  rivals,  and  he  who 
desires  to  write  noble  English  cannot  go  to  a  better 
school  than  that  of  the  Cltlzm  of  Ihe  World  and  the 
1  win-  of  Wakrmi. 

But  it  needs  more  than  a  fine  mastery  t.f  language 
-»  «nakc  a  great  writer ;  and  the  .secoud  source  of 
'Oldsmith's  litt 


t 


y  greiitncss  is  his  temj)er.      He 


breathes  the  spirit  of  a  noble  beuevoleuc 


e,  au  uu- 


OLIVKK  (JOLDS.MITH  61 

«ffet-teil  piety,  »  lieuit  luoviug i^oiupjwHJon.     His  owu 
roiigh  t.xiK.rieu.t.H  of  lift,,  «,  fa,  i,om  teachinu  hiiu 
«vmioii  from  his  kiud.  hmi  hml  i„  hi,n  a  bouudleHH 
sympatby.     -  VVere  1  to  »h,  a..K,y  with  meu  for  bcing 
I00I8,"  |,e  writeH,  "I  eould  heiv  have  found  aii.nle 
room  for  declamatiou  ;  bnt  ahw!  I  have  liwn  a  fo«.l 
iiiyHelf,  and  why  «hould  I  be  augry  with  them  f.»r 
iKMiig  «omething  m  uatural  to  every  child  of  hu- 
nianity  t "    This  sentence  is  admimbly  characteristic 
of  Goldsmith.     With  the  ehiid'»  fasciuatiug  artless- 
nw«  he  18  the  historiau  of  his  owu  folly,  he  laughh  at 
hi8   owu  blunderH,  he    «.veuls  hi«  owu  most  seon.t 
affet.ion8.    He    finds    somethiug    of    gold  ii.   the 
poori^t    dro88   of    hum..  ,    uatuiv,   aud    refus, .  to 
«I>«^k    meaniv    of    the  l.mest,  ,,.r  harshly  of  the 

shoultl  he  laugh  at  the  folly  of  othemf    n'e  hiuwlf 
has  aK  ,  fouud  out,  by  living  coutaet  aud  experieuce. 
that  hunuiu  worth  aud  kinduess  are  to  Ik'  fouud 
everywhere,  aud  most  perhap«  in  the  least-exiu^-tod 
quarters.     No  oue  ever  understood  the  pw,r   n-tter 
or  has  treati-d  them  with  so  tou(  ung  a  reve.     J 
Goldsmitlfs    feeling    for  the    poor    wa.   uot   me,-; 
sentimeuUd  pity ;  it  was  a  profouud  r.  spt-ct      U^ 
was  the  son  of  a  «.ountry  clergyuuiu  "  pan^in.   rich   m 
forty  pouudsa  y. ar"  :  he  had  soni  the  auHU..cnobie- 
ijess  of  poverty,  .is  «Wl  as  its  i.oau     hut«:an.l  i„ 
those  early  wauderings  of  his,  hv  had  ufu-n  broken 
bread  with  some  such  peasant  sjiirf  æ  'le  describes  : 

At  uight  returninK.  fvt-i  v  lalM)ur  s),    I. 
He  site  hiin  ddwn  the  iiionan  ^    ,f  «  .-^hcHl  • 
Snu  (es  by  his  cheerriil  Hre,  aiui  ,  uiihI  ^uru-yw 
Hm  childreu'8  looks  that  briKhtei  in  :he  blaze. 


-— «!-■»   •    »    . 


fr^ 


62      THK  MAKKIW  OF  EXGLISH  I'K()SE 
It  wjw  of  his  brotlier'8  huiiihle  lifc  Le  wrote : 

Blest  be  tliose  feasts  with  simple  pleuty  crown'd 
Where  all  the  niddy  fainily  arouud  ' 

Laugh  at  the  jesta  or  piauks  ihat  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  With  pity  at  suiue  mouiuful  tale, 
Or  preas  the  bashful  strauger  to  his  food, 
Aud  learu  the  luxury  of  doiug  good. 

The  luxury  of  doiug  good  was  the  only  luxury 
Goldsnu  h  ever  kuew.     Perhaps  it  con.iKu.«ited  him 
tor  the  laek  of  mauy  other  thiiigs  whit-h  most  men 
esteem    Iuxurie.s.      He    believed    in    goodness    aud 
pruirticed  it,  aud  it  was  out  of  that  temper  of  unre- 
straiued  love  for  humauity  that  all  that  is  uoblest 
lu  his  work  sprang.     Its  most  direct  fruit  is  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefidd.     Who  that  has  ever  read  those 
luimortal  pages,  who  that  hjis  laughed  at  the  harm- 
less  simplicities  and  vanities  of  the  little  group,  hjis 
uot  also  felt  the  presence  of  something  beside  humour 
and  pathos  in  the  book,  a  sunuy  humunity,  a  diviue 
atmosphere  of  (•ompjLssii)n,  the  pulstitions  of  a  pure 
and   boundleas  sympathyf    Is  there  iu  the  whole 
realm  of  English  liteniture  anything  more  profoi  ndlv 
tcmching  than  that  scene  iu  which  the  old  Vicar 
suddenly  stops  himself  in  the  curses  which  he  has 
uttered  on  his  daughter\s  l)etrayer,  and  s;iys,  '*Idid 
uot  curse  him,  child,  did  If"     ''ludeed,  sir,  you 
«ild;  you  curseil  him  twice."     ''Theu  may  heaven 
orgive  me  and  him,  if  I  did."     It  is  a  great  power  to 
touch  at  will  tlM.  sources  of  teai-s  and  laughtcr,  but  it 
>s  a  yct  grcaliT  to  brcathc  into  the  verv  spirit  of  a 
ii.uu  .^Mucthing  of  ih,.  clmrity  of  (Jod,  aud  that  is 
what  (.oldsmith  has  done  n.  the  Vkm-  of  Wakefidd. 
The  iresh  wmd  of  Eden  biows  aeross  its  pages ;  it  is 


OLIVEU  GOLDSMITH  63 

the  pictun,  of  a  lost  Paradise,  and  the  Imson  «f  how 
It  may  be  regamed.     Goethe  hm  recoi-ded  how  great 
.1  b  es8u,g  the  book  was  to  him.     He  mid  it  in  his 
youth ;  he  ha*,  recorded  hisobligations  in  his  autobiog- 
mphy ;  and  -standing  at  the  age  of  eighty-one  on 
he  very  bnnk  of  the  grave,  he  told  a  frieud  that  in 
the  decisive  moment  of  mental  development,  the  Vicar 
(if  \\akefield  had  formed  his  education,  and  that  he 
had  recently,  with  uuabated  delight,  read  the  charm- 
nife'  book  again  from  beginning  to  end,  not  a  little 
affected  by  the  lively  recollection  of  how  much  he 
luid  been  indebted  to  the  anthor  seventy  yeara  before. 
Uheil  we  think  of  this  noble  spirit  of  piety  which 
breathes  through  all  Goldsmith's  writings,  aud  of  its 
effect  m  softeuing  the  emotions  and  purifying  the 
thought,  we  may  say  of  Goldsniith,  m  he  ha/said 
ot  the  gieat  poets  whom  he  loved,  '  To  such  wonld  I 

hl^niallltj^-'''  '""'  ^  '^''"  '  "'"  '"•'"^^^^  ^«rit« 
Much  of  Goldsmith's  writings  n.nst  perish,  but  his 
b.'s    wnting  IS  secHue.     The  impression  which  he 
made  upon  the  men  of  his  own  tin.e  was  deeper  even 
thau  they  knew,  aud  it  m.«  ouly  the  hour  of  bereave- 
meut  that  revealed  to  them  all  that  they  had  lost. 
^^  hen  the  unexpect^  news  of  his  death  came,  Bnrke 
burst  luto  teai-s,  and  Reynolds  tlirew  away  his  brush  • 
bu    more  affecting  still,  m  a  token  of  what  hishfé 
had  meant  to  niany,   wj«  the  crowd  of  unhappy 
creatures  who  thronged  the  stuircase,  and  wept  bit 
terly   becanse  the  ouly  friend  they  had  ever  knowu 
ay  de:id  alnne.     JVrhaps  he  would  have  vahunl  the 
teai,.  of  these  poor  «.t.iluei-s  at  a  higher  rate  thau 
the  praises  of  posierity ;  and  y.>t,  tcK,,  tl.ere  was  a 
farne  which  Goldsniith  s<Migl.t,  aud  (o  which  he  knew 


i- 


u 


64      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

himself  eutitled.     There  is  nothing  more  pathetic 
in  his  hwtory  than  that  keeii  tormeuting  couscious- 
neas  which  possessed  him  of  capacity  squandered 
in  uncongenial  toil,  of  genius  equal  to  the  highest 
tasks  but  bound  to  the  meanest  by  the  need  of 
bread.     He  did  his  hack-work,  but  he  loathed  ic ;  he 
did  jt  as  hac^k-work  wjus  uever  done  before,  but  he 
ohafed  under  ite  degrddatiou,  and  still  more  under 
this  sense  of  conscious  waste  of  power ;  and  if  he 
had  stopped  there,  we  should  not  be  writing  of  him 
to-day.    But  deep  in  the  heart  of  poor  Goldsmith 
there  was  that  fiery  thirst  for  fanie  which  is  the 
portion  Ol  all  great  spirits,  and  without  which  it 
would  be  impossible  for  genius  to  endure  the  hard- 
ships  and  reproa<;hes  of  its  lot.    The  foolish  call 
this  thirst  vanity,   aud  the  undiscerning  name  it 
egoism,  but  it  is  in  truth  iieither  one  nor  other :  it 
18  siinply  the  effoit  of  a  great  mind  to  attain  its 
greatest,  to  be  worthy  of  itself,  to  secure  the  recogni- 
tion  which  it  feels  that  it  may  justly  claim,  to  live 
agam  in  t'ie  life  of  distant  ages  as  an  influence  and 
a  power,  secure  in  an  eternal  esteem,  immortal  in 
the  power  of  doing  good.     ''  There  is,"  says  a  modern 
wnter,  "  a  kiud  of  life  after  death  which  is  enviable ; 
such  sis  Apuleius  had  all  over  the  cities  of  the  Etust  \ 
the  fanie  which  bent  down  before  it  alike  Uie  Pagan 
and  the  Christian  world,  which  united  in  it  all  the 
glories  and  all  the  forccs  of  il  ^  pontiff,  the  poet,  the 
onitor,  the  teacher,  the  seer."     Apuleius  li  ved  in  the 
tlcsh  eighteen  hundre<l  yeurs  ago,  but  he  lives  to  day 
in  the  spirit,  in  the  n.ind  of  eveiy  scholar.     Can  we 
thmk  of  thesweetnessof  Psyche  without  ieineml)er- 
ing  her  poet  f    Can  we  even  heur  an  ass  brav  in  the 
stivets  without  a  vague  fancy  that  the  heart  of  Lucius 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  65 

is  boatiug  under  Li8  8haggy8kiut    That  is  farne  be- 
cause .t  18  indi880luble  atUichmeut  with  the  mSi  of 

oTfprii^tr^''"'^^'^^-    ^^^«this  Vision 


.  Choir  invisible 

Of  thoae  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
In  minda  made  better  by  their  preaenoe, 

that  has  beeu  the  divine,  sustaiuiug  hope  of  all  tho» 
great  spints  whose  thoughts  yet  move^  aud  whZ 
memones  are  dear  aud  vital  to  us.  ItLTertS^ 
heir  reward.  Wheu  Goldsmith  toiled  iu  s^^t  o^ 
the  Tmveller,  he  had  a  defiuite  aim  before  Wm  ^^ 

tliarmed  web  of  his  exquisit»  aud  teuder  8iii,nlir.,f^ 
aud  has  fouud  houest  farne  iu  the  love  of  muU  S 
made  uot  mei.ly  wiser  but  bett^rTy  his  p^nef 
m  se  Tf  rf  r^"'  f  *'^^  ^^"^^  ^-  P-^dTtle 

CToiiis^tt -e  s^r^-/.f-t 


ilBH 


iN\^  »  v*"-^^ 


I  . 


I'   i 


EDMUXJ)  BIIIIKE 

Bom  in  JhihUn,  Jan.   12,  1729.     l-ubUHlud  A    Vindication  of 
Natitml  Society,  and  Philomphical  Inquiry  into  our  Ideaa  on  the 
Sublime  and  litauUful,  175«;  Heflecliom  on  the  French  KevoMion 
1790.     Died,  July  9,  1797. 

THE  Ijwt  of  those  gmit  iiieu  wlio  formed  the 
Johu.soniiiu  circle  is  Edumud  Burke,  and  Le 
is  tlie  greatest  of  all.    lu  uieie  bulk  of  geu  i  us 
he  easily  overtops  all  his  cout^-uiporaries,   aud  is 
secoud  ouly  to  Johnsou  hiuiself.     The  tcstiuiouy  to 
the  greatuess  of  Burke  is  siugidarly  impressive  aud 
couipiete.     Johuson  sjiid  that  if  a  mau  had  to  shelter 
from  a  shower  uudcr  a  shed,  aud  had  Burke  as  his 
compauiou  for  teu  uiiuutes,  he  would  go  away  ssiyiug, 
"This  is  au  extraordiuary  mau."    Goldsniith  spoke 
of  :jurke's  iuinutable  fashiou  of  wiudiug  his  way 
into  a  subjoct  like  a  serpent.     Fox  ssiid  of  him  ou  a 
meuiorable  o<'ca.sion,  "  Ifall  the  political  information 
I  have  leanuMi  from  books,  all  which  I  have  gained 
fi-om  science,  aud  all  which  my  knowledge  of  the 
world  aud  its  atfairs  has  taught  me,  werc  put  in  oue 
scale,  and  the  improvemeut  which  I  have  derived 
from  my  right  honourablc  frieud's  iustructiou  and 
convcrsjition  in  the  other,  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to 
dccide   to  which  to  givc  the  pi-efereuce.      I  have 
learnetl  uiore  from  uiy  right  houourable  friend  thau 
from  ali  (he  mon  with  whimi  I  have  ever  conversod." 
Msvckiutosh  siiid  that  (Jibbon  uiight  have  l)een  takén 

m 


KmUJXJ,  nvilKE  ,57 

Ins  own  luino  iu  the  House  U„f  /t!  ^^^  ofteu  lor 
Pa.Iiamentary  orator  of  Tur  Tn  luZT'''' ^''''''' 
•"•ously  felt  thut  while  it  mi!    J  1^'  I  '"''"  """"• 

gi-eat  occjLsiou  came  he  wls  thl  ^''f*'*'"^'  ^^«"  » 
competent  to  deal  with  it      Bmt       ^^'  ,"'^"  '"^'^"^ 

ivstless  to  eyn,-..««  fi  '"*  ^ "'*'»»'«  jierpetual ly 

tli.it  It  he  wei-e  to  see  RmL»  fi.        •.         """*«> 

J'i«  inind.     Buike's  wi.    in  !    1.  ""  ^'"'^^'^  «^ 

louutain-ininds  of  t,.r'i  .         f'  ^"^  ^^  *^«  ^'■«^t 

l^inUherest^Z/ttTf^^LS^ 
Pioduced  profouud  eifeets  unon  h     f       '^'''^^^^^ 
still  felt.  "P"""  '"«  ^>"^«s  that  are 

That  Jiurke's  success  in  iif«  ^ 
.■i«.um.*u,oc.,  to  aoeount  for    heji     '^'''•''  "'""^ 

O.U.  w„.k  lu.      'h    ,         '•"""l«"""'"  "Pulen,,.,  „,„t 


1^1' 


•  ■»-  •  • ' 


«s      TUE  MAKKIW  OF  EX(iLI.SH  l'UOSE 

piopricfor  willi  a  position  which  coiild  not  be  bus- 
tiiiiKHl  on  less  thsiii  two  thousiiul  a  yoar.     Tluough- 
out  luH  life  ho  wsw  piofuw  in  his  exiK-mliture,  aud 
both  Kockiiighaiu  aud  Ki-yuolds  helped  him  with 
priucely  geuerosity,  aud  oi-dered  that  their  heirs  weie 
to  destroy  all  bilis  which  they  had  rectived  from 
Burke.     But  perhaps  this  taiut  of   iuipocuniosity 
would  uot  have  hiudered  Burke'»  career  seriously,  if 
he  had  not  also  displayed  umuy  glariug  defect8'of 
temper  aud  judgmeut,  which  reudered  him  a  difficult 
political  colleague  aud  au  awkward  frieud.     In  his 
philosophical  judguieuts  he  wiw  profound,  brilliaut, 
far-reachiug ;  but  iu  his  personal  judgmeuts  of  meu 
and  things,  he  was  apt  to  be  hasty  and  violent.     He 
hated  to  be  thwarted  :  he  did  not  know  how  to  be 
conciliatory,  aud  thus  he  ofteu  became  politically  im- 
practicable.     In  much  of  this  there  wjis  the  uatural 
irritability  of  genius  in  confliet  with  slow  aud  stupid 
natures,    but    much    also  must  l)e  attributed  to  a 
temper  inherently  defective.     \Ve  can  understand  his 
breach  with  Fox,  but  it  is  lamentable  to  fiud  him 
refusiug  to  ride  iu  the  coach  of  a  man  who  spoke 
u   good  word    of  Fox.      We   can    uudorstjiud    his 
chivalrous  interpretation  of  political  friendship,  but 
it  shocks  us  to  fiud  him  using  all  his  cloqnence  to 
defeud  two  defaultingclerks  iu  his  own  departmeut, 
who  were  iudubitably  guilty.     Bnrke  wiis  as  lavisli 
of  his  friendship  as  of  his  money,  aud  one  reason 
why  his  party  never  i-ewarded  him  with  cabiuet  rauk 
was,  as  Elliot  puts  it,  that  "  Burke  has  uow  got  such 
a  traiu  atter  him  as  would  sink  any  one  but  himself," 
and  goes  on  lo  name  four  discreilitcd  Irisluneu,  of 
whom  he  sjiys  niankind  is  (piite  "nauseated."     This 
caidinal  lack  of  discietion  not  mcrely  spoiied  Burke's 


EDMUXD  miRKK  e» 

poor  Hubnmute  lor  lom-.     Fox  ^M,  au<l  w  nUr^th 

a^  U8t  M  Iton,  aud  the  still  mo.^  lauguage  of 
of  Bark?""'''  «^>"»-^"«-  ^^^-'  «oldsmfth  f;okI 
maukiud,  tli,8  wjis  what  he  nieant.  Burke  allowed 
h.8  whole  uature  to  bc^  so  thoroughly  ma^t^rS  by 
partjsauship,   that   his    uoblest  qualiUes  haionly 

^e  :^' ^PP^^-^T"-  of  d-P%,  and  his  erro..  of 
taste  were  remembered  with  malicious  exactitude 
when  t,e  greatness  of  his  genius  was  forgoS       ^'' 
These  are  faults  which  go  far  to  exnl  .in  thL 

nH.gu,flcc.„ce  ubo„t  .he  man  wl.id,  .■.«•^mon t„o 

f»"™  '»■'■  ^ve spite  of  them^elves.    ile  m„vM 

npoa  the  shtge  with  a  certai,,  larcenea,  ,      «i™ 
whteh  ,,„  other  h„,I,  a-d  wheu  I.eehL  heeé,  ,p  .2 

w,is  o,ic  „f  ti„«e  lan^  rn,.,,  who  «leimuid  agreat  sta^c 
for  he  ,hsph,v  of  their  ,„,wens  a,„l  ar.,  m^.Z^To 


Til 


V:! 


f,  u 


*  -^"- 


^(f 


fl 


\l\ 


i  i  f 


fl 
li 
I  'I 


' 


11 

il 


70      THE  MAKERS  OF  Ei\(iLlSH  PKOSE 

tioiw  to  rall  foitli  liLsKmUm-ss  and  it  isa  pity  thai 
1h'  over  tlfigiuil   to  «lu-ak  ou  aiiy  otlu-is.      Let  a 
qiifHtioii  be  siuli  as  rost'  out  of  llif  mil m  of  party 
advantagu  iuto  the  ami>ler  air  of  iiniK-rial  sohnuiily 
aud  moral  cousi-iiuenee ;  let  it  be  soiuething  wliieU 
touched  the  lifeof  uations,  the  sourees  of  virtue,  the 
iualieuable  righks  of  juHtii-e;  let  it  above  all  be  a 
questiou  which  toueheil  the  deepest  springs  of  sent  i - 
meut,  aud  purified  the  passious  by  terror  aud  pity— 
and  theu  the  full  stream  of  Burke's  genius  wjw  uu- 
loosed,  aud  he  became  au  iutellectual  giant,  liftiug 
the  uiost  formidable  burdens  of  thought  with  easy 
mastery,    probiug   their    profouudest   depths   with 
almost   superhuuiau    power   aud  insight.     lu  such 
moments  Burke  was  ''clad  in  suddeu  brightnass  like 
a  mau  iuspired."    The  eeutral  foree  of  his  geuius  was 
a  brilliaut  imagiuatiou,  aud  it  wjus  uot  uutil  his  im- 
agiuatiou  kindled  tliat  his  whole  miud  woke  iuto 
activity.    But  wheu  ouce  his  imagiuatiou  caught  the 
flame,  his  whole  miud  seemed  to  How  like  molten  ore. 
He  touched  the  supreme  heights  of  thought,  of  pas- 
sion, of  feeling,  without  au  effort.     He  Wiis  swept 
away  upou  the  curreut  of  his  own  stroug  passion,  and 
was  its  slave  mther  thau  its  master. 

Acra<«  bis  sea  of  niiud 

The  thought  came  streaining  like  a  blazing  ship 

Upoii  a  niighty  wiml. 

Meu  looked  ou  with  awe,  as  upori  some  superuatuml 
display.  They  asked  whether  this  could  iudwd  be 
the  mau  whom  they  had  jeered  at  with  tipsy  wit  the 
night  before  last,  and  who  had  Imhmi  able  to  tiud  n< 
jest  in  repiy.  It  wsis  Burke  indeed,  but  it  was  Burke 
trausfiguml.     It  wa.s  Burke  with   the  grosser  and 


full  of  wouder  at  tLir  ...  m       '"'^'"«^'  ''''  »"«  ««iH 

iviug  <ju«|,oii»,  aud  Uk  words  we  n-id  a  7^     , 
luto  the  e,.™  .,f  m"irm™  '""*  "'  """*""■ 

,u,>l  t„  ';"'»'"' »l"ih  tnglaud  liiiil  «on  for  heiwlf 

>.a.«d,a„dr::™  r^7éta,re  1  '"'*"' 
The  deiision  « ilh  «hieh  ,1,7.^         J    '"  "Pl"''»*^- 

Dui,  „a,u,«  ;-..ted!::i  /„  „:r>,.CT 
eMh,«4r";!!,„  LaV'"my  di;»  *;?"  •"  •"*• 

India  f    Jt  wivj  h...   ,    •         **""'"hu,it     W  hat  was 
««geu,  Ol  a„y  eode  ol  J.ononr  to  Ix"  ahu.stHl.     All  the 


.XA^ 


-  VrfTlllfctT    ■  I 


E 

il 
i 

i 


li' 


72      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENCJLISH  PROSE 

barbarlc  iimularity  of  Biiti.sl,  i|riiomiK« and  prejudice 
rose  up  agaiust  Burke  whon  he  pleailod  the  claiiuH  of 
India,  and  hig  opponents  foiind  it  easier  to  hoot  him 
down  than  to  answer  him.  In  fact,  he  could  not  be 
answered.  He  was  right,  aud  luen  kuew  that  he  was 
right. 

The  magnificent  detachment,  the  singular  and 
almost  sublime  isolation  of  the  man,  was  not  less 
impressive  than  his  eloquence.  The  eloquence  it«i'lf 
was  like  nothiug  that  the  House  of  t\)mmons  had 
list«ued  to  before  or  since.  It  possessed  a  peculiar 
richneas  of  quality,  besides  which  the  sparkling  spewh 
of  Sheridan  seemed  jejune,  and  the  eloquence  of  Fox 
unfinished.  It  abounded  in  a  species  of  sublime 
imagery  such  as  no  other  English  orator  has  ever 
commanded.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  uurestraiued  out- 
pouring  of  a  great  intellect,  perhaps  the  fullest  and 
ripest  intellect  of  his  time. 

We  cannot  wonder  at  the  sort  of  impotent  fury 
which  possessed  the  minds  of  his  advei-aaries,  whose 
only  notion  of  governing  India  wsw  to  suck  her  life- 
blood  out  by  infamous  i-apacities  and  spoliatious, 
when  they  listeued  to  such  a  passage  as  this.  He 
Pictures  the  sort  of  men  who  were  sent  out  to  goveru 
India  thus:  "Animated  by  all  the  avario^  of  age, 
and  all  the  impetuosity  of  youth,  they  roll  in,  one 
after  another,  wave  after  wave,  and  there  is  nothiug 
before  the  eyes  of  the  natives  but  an  endless,  hopeless 
prospect  of  new  flights  of  birds  of  prey  and  passage, 
With  appetit«s  continually  reuewing  for  a  food  which 
is  continually  wasting."  Then  tliey  return  home, 
glutted  With  wealth,  "aud  their  prey  is  lodged  in 
Eugland ;  aud  the  crios  of  India  are  given  to  seas 
and  wiuds,  to  be  blown  about,  in  every  breaking  up 


1 


FDMirM)  UVHKK 


78 


by  «hul,  HiHld..,!  lo,»u.H.«a.va.-.,uim|,  «hil,,  in  Kn«. 

^.."1   u,r   o.Um.   ,lis,.lay,H|    by  the  sa,....  pn^s,.,.  tL 

v..  .u«   «hMh   clis,«.„.s..   hen.,iitary   «vaMh,  ^  ,hut 
litM-e  the  mau„nu.tum-  a.i(l  iht,  h,,sl«tudn,u..  will 

»I.'SH    l...,ust  a...I  p„,K.tual  haud  Ihat  i„  luUia  h.is 
ton.  the  (loth  iVon,  the  loo..,,  or  wr,.8tetl  tbe  mii.tv 
IM.H.O,.  ol  .ire  ai.d  siilt  fio...  the  iH^ami.t  of  Hc.„Kal 
o.-  wru„^,  tVu..»  hi..,  the  very  opi.i.u  i„  whid,  he  fo,* 
g«'ts    his    opp,es«io„    aml    his    oppie^ssors."      Suel. 
m,ustj.,p,eees  ;«  th,.He  have  loug  «i„ee  b..en  mw- 
ni/e.l    as    unio,.g  the  ..obh-Ht   pa«.ssige8  of   K»Klish 
ntentture.     They  are  kept  ali  ve  „ot  n.erely  l^  U  i  ! 
rhet^rical   brillia.,ce,    b„t  by  the   Intense  flame  of 
mora     power    which    ani.uates    then,.      They    ai-e 
mode  s  of  declainatio,.,  and  ,..ore  than  this,  they  are 
mode  s  of  magnilieent  style,  of  the  power  and  stuteli- 

It  IS  «,eld..d  by  the  haud  of  agmit  mjuste,-. 

The  eon.n.o,.  peril  of  what  n.ay  ln-  ealle<l  the  ^rand 
^  M.'  .«  KHind.  oqnenee,  an.l  this  peril  Bnrke  h;us  ..ot 
always  escaixHl.     The  pnrple  patehes  are  r.ot  ulw-i  s 
ju  nnlueed  With  «..d  taste,  or  with  a  eonvet      "  , 
the  general  harn.ony  of  effeet.     Like  «.ast  artists  who 

ri";;;- r'  "•'  ^"""•'■"'  '^""^^^^^  '"-^  -rk„.L; : 

H  son.etn,.es  coars..,  aud  his  eolom-s  are  .so,.,etiines 
m.de  and  hot.  Burke's  te...pe,a.neut  w.us that  of  e 
poet,  and  that  was  why  everything  w:«  .m.u  throug^^ 
U.e  golden  ha^e  of  imagiuatiou.  His  fi,.st  book,  tt e 
men  omble  ess^ty  o„  the  SuMnn.  an,l  lioaufiful,  i.  ,he 
manitesto  of  a  ,...tie  ge..ins.  It  is  the  indéx  to 
B..rke  s  nund  a..d  s..ffieiently  dec-Ian-s  on  what  tbod 
»H'  had  nour.she,l  1...  thoughts.     The  tlnest  jKwsages 


I 


^- 


A 


74      THE  MAKERS  OK  EXOhlsif  VllOSK 

of  mviiui  iHHtry,  <.H|MTi„l|.v  of  llvhtv^^    iMH-tiy,  „„. 
Jlinv  .il.Ml  aiHi  ...vpliii.M.I;  ,„„|  „lM.f   Ifurk..  rai.nul 
«IMI  Ull  a.lniuatr  li-ai..slatio„,  I,,.  ,„ak.,s  oi»,  for  |,i,„. 
N<'II,  iw  III  the  mliiiinihl,.  (raiiNript   „f  Mi».  Ijim^k  nf 
V  ii-KiI  whirh  .l«.H.rJlH!  VuhaiiM  «•  ivc  ii,  Ktini  •  -  n,rr 
rayn  uf  Ucintvd  »f,o,rn„  thnr  ,,/  ,mUnj  rhnuh,  thnr  of 
fir^,  and  thrve  of  th.  winyrd  Honih  ,ri,.d:  f/,„M  mUed 
tiuy  u,  the  irork  tnrijlr  Hyhhunyn,  and  mm^d,  md  l\or 
and  anyer,  icdh  purminy  fiamfH." 
But  it  would  be  a  miHtak.'  to  wippoHe  tliat  Bu.  ko 

suit^  his  imiueUiute      .rp«^..     n,,  «u.  be  ten*.,  .„.. 
«lormnl,  honu-ly,  eoli,K|uiaI,  ,w  well  jts  «orKtnmH,  in- 
g^Miious,  u.Kl  philosophieal.     He  eau  eomenfrate  Iuh 
pu«H.oi,  ,„to  Hj„^,ie  vivi.l  p|,ra«e«,  a«  when  lu»  speakH 
Ol  tlie     hviner  „i(.,.r  of  a  eon-oiliiig  luemory."     He  is 
liever  monotonous,  l)e«in,se  he  is  always  vaiious.     Ile 
can  wnte  in  tlie  elejin.st  and  most   un.olonml  of 
prose,  as  i,,  hi»   ^««^7*^*  ««  ihe  Premd  Dm-ontndM; 
or  in  gUminfr  diatrilM-,  as  in  his  R^neciiom  on  th- 
Frmch  lifvohdhn  ;  or  witli  an  overwhelinii.K  pjission 
of  Hcorn  and  anj,'er,  as  in  Ihe  fainous  Leiter  to  a  Noble 
Lord,  whioh  Mr.  Morley  hiis  calhHl  the  niasl  brilliant 
n'partee  in  the  lanjruap..     So  divers..  is  his  power 
that  one  of  his  erities  has  siiid,  and  scareely  with  ex- 
Wmtion:  ''Bnrke's  writinff  is  alm,.st  unrivallé.1 
tor  its  combination  and  dexh.rous  interehaiiKe  of  ex- 
cellencies.     It    is  hy   f„r„s  statistics,    metaphysi*.., 
paintinfr,  poetry,  eloqaence,  wit,  and  wisdom,  it  is  so 
cool  and  .so  warm,  so  mechanical  and  so  impulsive, 
so  m«usnn.I  and  so  impetnons,  so  c-lear  and  so  pro- 
found,  s<)  simple  and  .so  rich.     Its  .s^.ntences  a,-e  now 
the  8ho,«..st  and  i.ow  the  longest ;  now  ha,v  ,us  Jiutler, 


KI'Mrxi>  '•    HKK  73 

ii„„.,i    ..,.,1  •'     ''>"••;  iiow  convfi-s}* 

IMMI.ll,   aiUl    II.MV   ulM;i|,.     inf,. Mv.      ....I       11. 

unn.    iii.ii      .111  y,MKl  and   vip.,oii,s  iJiLdiwli  sivl..« 

o(  Hau,    .mt  of  C^oJerid,...  ,hat  of  J,.  (^uu..;     i 

m»<.h  nuLbted  to  the, .w.  .i,,,  wl.i.h  lÅ2:^;Z 

1 «  stuj,M,ant  wat(>,-s  of  our  lit.ralu.v,  and  hv  whiH, 

hnn^M  cvstablished  on.  of  the  g.va.Vst,  m  JCSj. 
a.K    m.st  Ia.stinK-that  of  a  new.  n./.re  in  p,Ii      !  ' 
and  h.s  c.onvn.tional  modo  of  addmsnin/the  mH- 
I«  ts  and  h,.art«  of  »»■„.-     h,.,  „,.  ^,J^^^  J^ 

oh.s...U.„,snu.ststil,U.n..o,niJinth.dsp'^^^ 
ot  sp  r.  „u    HloofncKs  whic-h  hHd  hini,   as   it   we  v 
IXMMHl  iMKh  ab..vo  his  inuuediat.  subjcn-t,  Mi,       . N 
|^y'^r=:c^H   ou  tho  .,n>a<hT  issuesand  .vhttionJof  thinf^s 
--.Hhu.Kof  p|.i,os,>,.hi,s  butstill  w.o...fp..o,>h;i  . 
^-.ty  of  v.s,on.     (Jmttnc.ssofsrv^.an^se   art..al 
not  trom  a.nd.n,..l  gnuv  or  ,.ovv  .i  .xpmssion  -  U 


^ 


I 


■lb 


iiiii  n ' 


Il 

K 

•  i 


f 


iVi 


m 


70      THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGIJSH  PR08E 

springs  from  Honiething  dwper-the  gmit  mind  aud 
tlie  uoble  teiiiiK»r. 

The  greatest  of  Ji„rko\s  writings,  aud  the  oue  which 
JModueed  the  uiont  i)rofound  effect  upou  his  times  aud 
Jjis  owu  fortune»s  wa«  his  Jiefketiom  on  the  French 
RevoUUmi.     Nothiug  that  he  wrote  h;«  beeu  u.ore 
wideJy  read,  aud  in  it  the  best  aud  woret  qualities  of 
i>is  geuius  are  displayed  with  siugular  abaudoumeut. 
its  literary  qualities  are  great  aud  uudeniable.     Few 
pjisstiges  in  Euglish  litemture  are  better  knowu  thau 
hat  marvellous  descriptiou  of  Marie  Antoinette  as 
he  saw  her  in  her  happy  days,  aud  of  that  buret  of 
mouruful  auger  against  the  foes  who  had  humiliattnl 
her      -But  the  age  of  Chivilry  is  goue.     That  of 
sophisters,  ecouomists,  aud  calculators  has  succeeded, 
aud   the  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished.     Never 
uever  more  shall  we  behold  th.it  generous  loyalty  t^ 
muk  aud  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  dignified 
olKHlieuce,   that  subordiuation  of  the  heart,  whici, 
kept  ahve,  even  in  servitude  its^df,  the  spirit  of  au 
exalted  fiwdoui.     The  unbought  gnu;e  of  life,  the 
«•heap  defeuseof  uatious,  the  nurseof  maulyseutimeut 
aud  heroie  enterprise  is  goue  !     It  is  goue,  that  seusi- 
bihty  of  priui-iple,  that  ehastity  of  houour,  whieh  felt 
a  staiii  hke  a  wouml,  which  iuspired  counige  while 
It   n.itigated   fenx-ity,   which   eu.K)l)led  whatever  it 
touchiHl,  aud  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  itsevil 
by  losing  all  it«  grossuess."     The  si)octa.!e  of  liurke 
siHldeuly  trausformed    iufo    tlu'  pauegyrist  of   Ihe 
l^rcuch  C'o.irt  niight  wcU  prove  an  sistounding  oue 
both  tu  lus  fricuds  aud  focs.     IJ„t  i,,  rcality  the  chauge 
«ius  not  a  «hangc  of  priuciple.     I„  all  that  touchcd 
the  iMg her  «.'utimcuts  of  lif..,  |iu,ke  had  alwavs  l)eeu 
lutensely  couservative.     He  still  profess«d  Xa>  love  a 


<<1 


EDMUMi  BITRKE  77 

'mnly    moral,  regulatcHi  liberiy,"  and  iu  this  he 
on^  «au   a  n.h  what  he  h,ul  «aid  t.„  years  befo  e- 

Tbe  hberty  the  ouly  lilH^ty  I  ,nean,  is  a  lilHTtv 
connec  ed  w,th  order.".  Burke  wa«  simply  the  fi^^ 
great  Eng  ishman  to  peræive  the  violeuee  whicl  Z 
being  bred  i„  Freuch  politics,  and  to  walk  in  tli^ 
pathway  of  unpopular  renunciation  which  wa«  after- 
wards  to  be  trodden  by  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge 

But  the  really  remarkable  thing  about  Burké's 
I.jmphlet  wa«  that  it  displayed  a  politi«U  foresS.t 

n  1790,  when  the  foremost  minds  of  Europe  enter- 
Uined  nothing  bnt  the  most  briUiant  hopes  of  the 
Eevolution.  The  dreadful  spectm  of  the  Cror  iZ 
given  no  sign  of  its  advancing  tbotsteps.     The  verv 

Z'sSrt  "  'f  ""^  ''''  ^"  ""^'^^^  -^  the 
ble     til  "^  ««"«titutional  government  possi- 

DJe.     Rob<'8pierre  was  an  obscure  name.     Marat  li-id 

ZZ^:;T- ''''  "'"^'  ^"  --'^''^«^  '^ttfttt 

«H nee.  At  the  honr  when  Burke  wrote,  not  one 
«i"Kle  yoice  had  been  .  ;te.l  up  in  warning  ^  Z 
such  catiwstrophos  ;us  these.     The  verv  wisi.,tJ\\l, 

al  mankuul  "     B„rke's  book  w^«  a  storm-be-ll  r    " 
when   the  sky  w.i.s  elear.  when   a   new  dav  of      t 
•^rightest  and  n.ost  reasonable  hope  .seeme<l  b,  vak  ing 
over  Rurope.     We  nuiy  .ulmit  now  tluit  Burke  wre 
rom  nuperfeet  infu:-,„ation,  an.l  with  uu  entirely  lm 
^H.j.    n.I.zationofthe..al..au..swhi,^^^ 

tl.e   I  evolut.on.     W.  umy  Uun.ut  that   he  who 
'ud  so  nobly  ehampion<.l  the  native  rights  of  Hindus 


ti' 


^  ^-"^  ■  * ' 


m 


'i 


ili 


7s 


TIIK  MAKKRS  OF  KN(UJSII  PKOSE 


sliould  liml  nothiiiK  to  suy  <„,  lK'half  of  (he  Fa-nd, 
.s.'it,  to  whose  famine-stricken  ai)i)«al  the  replyof  thf 
i^  rerjch  anstocrju^y  Wius  f  hat  he  Hhould  eat  grass.    But 
.mvevor  imi>erfe<,tly  ii„rke  realiz.^  the  true  eauses 
ol  the  Revolution,  he  jururately  peiceived  its  cc.rse 
wheu  he  prophesiiHl  that   its  eud  w,>uld  be  a  new 
«lespotism,  tiere^.,-,  luightier,  and  more  iutolemnt  thau 
ii-urope  hjid  ever  knowu  or  di-eame<l  of.     There  is  no 
HKstance  of  poIitie.il  pieseience  iu  Engiish  history  so 
leuiarkable  as  this.     Three  years  later,  in  the  Jan- 
uaiy  ot  1793,  the  news  of  the  execntion  of  I>,uis  XVI 
mu-  K^l  London,  and  it  then  .s^HMued  Jis  if  a  gr«it  nu- 
lH^e<i  propheey  ha.1  eon.e  trne.     The  whole  nation 
l.u    on  niourning,  and  liurke  fonnd  himself  at  onee 
the  most  famons  aml  most  p<,werfnl  man  in  the  eonn- 
tiy.     It  W.W  then  that  the  fnll  fruit  of  his  pamphlet 
eg-an  to  l>e  seen.     It  is  .sc-areely  too  nuu-h  to  s.ty  that 
It  was  Burke  wJio  di,-,Mt<Ml  the  eourse  of  foreign  pol- 
itics  lor  the  next  twenty  years,  that  that  long  series 
ol  wai-s  which  cnlminated  at  Waterloo  In-gan  in  that 
wave  of  intense  fet^ling  which  swept  over  the  ...untrv 
when  men  read  Burke's  pa.«phlet,  and  found  three 


years   later  that  its  terrible  verilieation  h 


meneed 


Ild  com- 


Forhims.'lf,  however.  the  vindicationofh 
was  a  heavy  price  to  pay  f«)r  that  wide  d 
Inendships  which  ensued.     He  had  beco 
With  the  men  who  ha<l  hated  him  all  tlieir  I 
had  lost  the  love  ol 


IS  opinions 

isruption  of 

>ecome  i)opnlar 

i  ves,  and  he 


the  friendships  of  yeai-s.     H 


men  who  had  hononred  him  with 


WMss,.lit,i,y;  he  was  nn.lismayed.  aud  was  sust 


donbtless  bv  hi 


e  w.ts  vindicated,  but  he 
iiiued 


wl 


lliicon(|ii('ral>le   |<,ve  <.f  imtli  ;    but 


HMi   a   man  reachcs  the  borders  ot 


friend 


sn  I 


1>  «annot  Ijut  leave  its  s<»rrowful 


iige.  the  loss  of 


mark  upon 


Ixifoiivictioii8ofsolemiin..,l..i       .     .         ""  *>"  •" 
He  wo„W  J,„|U  ouurira  to  r  "'"'•''"°' «"*"•»•• 

Of  a.K,,e,„  iovtof  Sot^iCIrof/T"^  •""" 
nature.     It  w;«  Z  ti, ti         '^^'  """^'^^  «^  ^'^ 

With  u„fli„dn„g  IbrtiTle  BuMn  h'  ""'"^  S' P^"* '' 
'onff  Iov,Hl  and  trus  ,i,!imri?,''''^^^"*'^ 
•n.u.h  fortitiuh.  us  obs  in.'  f  ^''''  '^"'^  ^^^^  so 

With  sorrowful  evas.  nnH  1   .         ^  ^''**^  "P""  """ 
we.l  nuote  of  hi^the ;^^^^^^^ 

nr  Klory  „l,«cur«l :  as  when  the  mu   „ew  ris-n 
Wk.s  t  .rou«h  the  horizontal  .nisty  ^  ' 

^     n«e<.hpHedis„«tronstwi.i«htshe<.:     '"" 
f-  "hh.n;^  lalK>u.-s  lo,.  i,Ks  country  were 


Ml 


v 

11!. 


^/!!. 


HO      TUK  MAKKIW  UF  KNCiLISII  PROSE 

alM)ut  lo  U;  rewjinlftl  hy  a  luHMiiKt',  his  oiily  son  diod 
aller  a  short   illnms,  jind  the  arnujj;emeiit«  for  the 
peerage  broke  down.     Few  piwsji^es  in  liteiaturc  are 
more  touching  tlmn  that  in  whieh  he  himeuts  hi» 
sou,  Hsiying,  "The  storm  lisis  goue  over  me,  aud  I  lie 
like  oue  of  those  old  oaks  wliich  the  late  hurrioauc 
has  se}ittere<I  about  me.     J  am  stripped  of  all  my 
hououi-s ;  I  am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  aud  lie  prostmte 
on  the  earth.     1  am  aloue.     I  have  none  to  uu'et  my 
euemieis   in  the  gate.     I  live  iu  an  iuverted  order. 
Those  who  ought  to  have  suecmled  me  have  goue 
iK-fore  me.     Tluy  who  should  have  b»-en  to  me  jw 
IMwterity  are  in  the  phue  of  au<-ejst<»rN."    The  inuig»- 
which   Hurke  usetl  is  al  «nee  a  gr.UMl  aud  Irue  oue  ; 
aud  this  elemeut  uf  uwgnilieeai-e,  whit-h  kad  always 
distiuguished  him,  rfcuiKteriml  him  to  tke end.     H« 
is  as  imiwrssive  iu  his  solitary  old  :jge  as  is  tke 
height  of  his  power,  aud  preæuts  to  the  uiiud*s  eye 
to    the   la«t   a  siugulitrly   picturesque  aiul   striking 
«gure.     lie  stands  out  among  the  meu  of  his  time 
With  a  grandeur  of  outline  sueh  Jis  distinguisiied  Sir 
Walter  Haleigh  auioug  the  writers  of  ElizalH'lh,  and 
the  sjime  vivid   |»ersouality  ivveals  ilself  in  ull  his 
wrilings.     He  was  oue  of  thow  men  of  whom  p«)s 
terity   linds    il    dilHruit    to   form   a   judgmeut    high 
euoiigh  to  Ih-  aciiirate,  simply  ^leeause  the  man  wa*i 
far  gn-ater  Ihan   his  works.   and   his  works  are  bul 
fraguuMits  of  a  mind  which  unght  have  aehieved  far 
higher  results.  hatl  liis  lift-  l^etni   tm-  from  the  eai-es 
aud  \«-xatious  <»f  patiy  waifare.      We  have.  however, 
to  take  him  with  tbe  «lefects  of  his  qualities ;  and  if 
ije  has  n<.t  the  «alm  meisive  fnree  of  Hae<.ii,  nor  the 
slreugth  Mf  Milt«»n.  he  cuues  .K-ar  to  IIh-  ou^  in  his 
prolound  griusp  of  luiuiiples,  and  the  ..ther  iu  Mnp«'rb 


EDAIUND  BUKKE 


«1 

loroe  of  expressiou,  and  is  enfiH«.i  f    u 

thoHe  who  have  uLdthlv^^  ^  ^  ""^^  ^ith 

the  greatest  moiS  ^u^  '  '"^  '^'  '^^  "^'^  ^f 


"I 


\fl 


VI 


'ill 


EDWARD  GIBBON 


Born  at  Putney,  April  27,  1737.     Firrt  ivl.  of  Decline  and  Fall 
puhltshed,  me,  the  latt  1788.     Died,  1794.  "»««««  7^ «« 

W  HEN  we  pa«8  from  Burke  to  Gibbon,  the 
sensatiou  which  we  experieuce  is  like  a 
cLange  from  the  tiopic  to  tlu-  temperatc 
zone.     The  life  and  iudividuality  of  Burke  are  full 
of  yivid  colour,  and  impress  us  with  a  sense  of  power 
and  splendour.     It  is  easy  to  stiy  that  they  are  son.e- 
tinies  <-lothed  iu  a  eertain  meretricious  glitter,  as  it  is 
«wy  to  tind  fault  with  tropic  s(,enery  for  a  gorgeous- 
ness  which  uppres8t^s  us,  and  a  fullness  of  light  which 
i«  inonotonous.     But  wlien  we  enter  the»  region  of 
gray  seiw  and  cloudi.!  skies,  we  at  lejtst  remember 
With  regret  the  glory  of  the  realni  whiel.  we  have 
eft,  and  we  tind  it  diffi..„lt  to  m-eustom  oui-^-lves  to 
the  flat  outline  and  dnib  colour  of  an  environuHM.t  so 
«LfllM-ent      Burke's  lifc  n.ovc^  th.-ough  a  i-egion  of 
swift  and  magical  trausitions.  an<l  is  fascinating  fron. 
hrst  to  last:   Gil)hon's  travels  ,>n  a  plane  of  rigid 
«•omn.onplace.     Johnson  and  his  friends  in.press  us 
<Jiffe.ently,  but  each  figur»^  is  instind  with  lifc.  an.i 
alluivs  us  With  a  tragic  or  pathetic  inten-st.     <;ihl,o„ 
1.S  a  great  author,  hut  we  do  not  M  hin.  t«.  Im»  u  .Mvat 
"«ii...     It  IS  in  vain  that  we  read  his  letters  oi  st.Klv 
••LS  .Huirnals,  to  «itch  some  gleai.is  of  that  alluring 
in.l.viduality  which  has  often  made  th,>  lives  of  far 
less  lamous  men  a  subject  of  perpetual  interest      W  V 

82 


KnWAUD  (ilBHOS  ^ 

he-  lives  ouly  in  the  immortalitv  ofhit  nf '    ^'""""J' 

«inglet^^k.arwlrr.o":!;?''*',''''™"»''  '"  " 
*lf  to  o„o  ,,,ofon,  I    »      '        '^■'"'"''""■"•'•^Wln. 

"ot  help  feeliug  L  '"f  /"'"'"f"™'  ''o  «"- 
«.i..t  Jd  vet  L  ;?!J  ;  "''  ""  '"'""i-ed  bj-  u 
Of  the  sehola  .  TufZ  iT^  ^"'  "«••  ""■■>''"» 
PO.'.,  and  bis  ste^V  m,u^^^"'""'7""'— '•  ".e 
PO*  is  searoely  loss  i„,„^"."\,;'Vf  ■"""'«  1""- 
»«U  pnblie  .ri„.„pas  of  U.e  .la  2. , "-'  w"" '^'"" 
(..blwu  a  noble  wm„k  of  ,vr   ,  ^*  <"  >«  i" 

lowe.1,  eau  make  of  a  lifr  ,il  '  ,        '-««iHfly  fol- 
b-n  .asied  in  epi^:.:     t  /  '  ;™*  f  «■■? ''-o 

Of  Gibbon  .he,e  w.    ,o      ,    "h  ■:  "'"  "'"""""'^  J'""'" 

";« -am.,,  .u;;;:;;;  'rs,r':;y.';:! "™«'  •" 

«^V  of  Ovfoid    I    ../.L.,  1      "       "'•  lo  tht;  J   Illv.T 

-"1  -  ,„.'.  „,::";" ""  •""■^-"--  ".«I  sl,,. 

-ootbs  a,  Magaal..,,  r^^L^ZZ  IZ^Z 


84      THE  MAKEKS  OF  ENGLISH  TUOSE 


I 


i<Ik!  and  unpi-oUtiible  «>f  my  whole  life."  But  Gibbon 
hutl  that  which  Oxford  could  iieither  give  nor  take 
away — the  inlK>rn  ardour  of  Hcbolarehip.  He  says 
tiuit  he  took  With  him  to  Oxford  a  Htock  of  eruditioii 
which  uiight  have  puzzled  a  doctor,  aud  a  degree  of 
iguorauce  of  which  a  schoolboy  luight  have  beeu 
ashamed.  For  this  state  of  thiiigs  the  desultory 
charaeter  of  his  previous  educatiou  is  to  be  blamed. 
A  great  or  fiuished  scholar  he  uever  was,  in  the  seuse 
in  which  we  i-eckon  Forson  or  Beutley  great  aud 
fiuished,  or  indeed  in  the  degree  to  which  many  other 
men  of  his  geueratiou  attaiued.  But  he  brought  with 
him  to  the  toils  of  schoUirship  a  literary  inntinct  aud 
a  i)ower  of  usiug  kuowledge  which  men  like  Forson 
lacked ;  aud  thus  his  comparatively  unfinished 
scholarship  wjis  of  far  greater  service  to  the  world 
than  the  uucirculated  wealth  of  their  more  recoudite 
Icaruiug. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  well  doubted  whether  a  univer- 
sity training  does  not  do  more  to  impede  the  growth 
of  literary  genius  thau  to  develop  it.  It  is  a  strik- 
ing faet  that  a  brilliant  univereity  career  has  rarely 
been  the  iwrtion  of  those  who  have  become  the  gi-eat- 
cst  forct«  in  our  literature.  Among  poets,  Shake- 
speare kuows  littlir  Latin,  and  less  Greek ;  Byron'8 
residenct  at  a  university  is  more  nolorious  for  its  dis- 
sipj  tion  tliau  its  «holju-ship  ;  and  ShcUey  is  ex- 
pelleil  from  ()\f  .ni  wlul»  \v\  a  mere  l)oy.  Among 
novelists,  iScoti  liiuLs  his  .  «Iticiition  in  the  free  life  of 
tlie  liorder,  and  l>i(htM;s  iu  the  strwts  of  Ixiudon, 
wliile  tlM!  foundations  of  llir  wide  s<'holiUsliip  of 
George  Kiiot  are  laid  in  tiie  <iuiet  life  of  a  Warwick- 
shiitj  farndiousc.  Anion^^  our  motiern  historians, 
Grote,  who  iHjrhapss  was  the  most  scholarly,  was  not 


EDWARD  filRBOX  85 

•laiiiMl  ill  a  miiv.'1-sity.     The  list  iiiinht  lm  iiHltfi- 
iiil.l.v  cxtemlHl.     Ill  (JihlHiirs  owii  (hiy  tlu-  liv.s  of 
lliuk.'  aiHl  Ooldsmith  fuiiiisln^|  Ht  riking  txumplrs  of 
tho  Kiowth  of  lit^Tury  },MMiiuH  to  wliich  the  siiiriviit 
Heats  .)f  public  learuiiig  hiul  eoiitiihutetl  nothiug. 
The  tnith  appejus  ta  be,  thsit  while  a  university  iiiay 
do  mueh  iu  the  way  of  scholarly  traiuin},'  and  disci- 
pline,  it  is  apt  to  repi^ss  originality,  and  to  turn  out 
seholars  who  are  nioulded  after  a  eonuaon  pattern. 
Had    Giblrøn    pursued    a    distinguished    university 
eareer,  it  in  probable  that  ho  miglit  have  l)e<onie  a 
Fellow  of  a  college,  or  even  a  bishop,  but  he  would 
never  have  been  the  historiau  of  Konxe.     He  haa  hini- 
self  almost  lamented,  in  one  of  those  curiously  fmnk 
confessions  which  occasionally  euliven  liis  memoira, 
that  he  did   not  choose   "the  fat  slumbera  of  the 
Church  "  as  the  goal  of  his  auibition.    The  lanienta- 
tion  is  to  us  almost  as  ridiculous  as  the  chagriu  of 
Kobert  Blake  when  he  failed  in  beeoming  a  Fellow 
of  Meiton.     We  o^iu  perhaps  sus  little  conceive  fJib- 
bon  swaying  the  crozier  of  the  bishop,  as  the  groat 
athniral  oi"  the  Coninionwealth  restraining  his  ener- 
gies  within  the  deoorous  limits  of  an  Oxford  Fellow- 
ship,  but  we  can  now  perceive  that  such  disjippoint- 
nientvs  Mere  part  of  that  eternal  law  of  fitness  which 
works  in  Ininian  aflaii-s.     Perhaps  the  two  circum- 
stances  which  did  most  to  fit  Gibbon  for  the  labours 
of   his  life  wcre,    fii-st,    that  his  university  cartn^r 
was  brief,  aud  stnond,  that  his  removal  fn.m  Oxford 
resnlted  in  a  residence  of  five  yeai-s  at  Laussumo. 

It  wjis  in  r^iusanne  that  (Jibbon  discoveretl  the 
biMit  of  his  own  genius,  and  Ix-gan  to  tniin  hispowera 
after  a  method  of  liis  own.  H..  mid  voracionsly  ii; 
the  ancient  chussics,   and  did  not  trouble  himself 


l: 

il    * 

1 1 


'li: 


80      THE  MAKKK8  OF  EN(H.ISH  PliOSK 

alnmt  llio  luiimter  detnilH  of  <'holanihip.     Hin  tutor 
wis»ly  h-ft  hiiii  to  hiuis»  If,  aml  lus  leadiug  tims  \h- 
DiiiH'  uof  Sl  ilriulp  ry.  hut  u  ddigUt.     In  (Jn-f-k  lit> 
iiuule  hut  sliKht  projrims,  iiiid  IVoiii  "the  Iwnifii  tswk 
of  seaifhing  words  in  a  lexit-ou  withUiiw  to  the  fn-»" 
and   faniiliai   conversation  of  Virgil  and  Tacitiw." 
He  enaily  adaptinl  hiuiwlf,  not  nuitsly  U.  tl>e  methods 
of  Continental  life,  hut  to  thr  wuys  of  Continental 
thought.     When  we  eonsider  flmt   th«'.se  tive  years 
fovei-ed  the  most  foiuiutive  i)eiiodof  joulh,  we  eau 
appm-iale  the  eflec-t  tliey  would  have  in  «iviii^  fi-esli- 
ueas  of  Outlook  aud  oiiginality  of  refleetiou  to  a  niind 
like  Gibbon'8.     They  fieed  hini  fioni  any  time  of  in- 
«ularity,  and  uioulded  his  thought  to  a  EuroiKsin 
breadth.     Freneh  becauu-  the  ianguage  in  whieh  he 
habitually  thought,  and  of  that  tonleujpt  for  for- 
eiguei-8  which  Wiis  so  eomuion  even  anioug  edueated 
Engli.shnien  in  Oiblrøn'»  day  he  was  wholly  enianei- 
pat«'d.     The  result  of  thew  combined  iuflueuees  was 
that  when  he  a]>proafhed  the  great  work  of  his  life, 
he  brought  to  it  a  miud  traiued  to  singular  breadth 
of  Vision,  and  his  writings  have  always  beeu  among 
those  which  have  bcen  best  known  aud  l)est  appre- 
ciated  by  (.'outineutal  peoples. 

A  great  deal  hius  bcen  writteu  about  Gibboirs  cold- 
uess  of  nature,  but  one  can  be  by  no  means  sure  that 
thcre  is  any  real  ground  for  the  charge.  A  carcful 
rccai>ituIation  of  somc  of  the  caitlinal  points  in  his 
life  would  lead  us  to  a  diflereut  couclusion.  At  si.x- 
Uvu  he  has  enough  iciigious  euthusiasm  to  einbrace 
tlic  doctriucs  of  Rome,  and  to  take  up  precisely  the 
iiitdlcctual  positiou  into  which  Newman  w>w  driven 
niiHty  yeai-s  later.  In  all  his  faniily  i-elationships 
his  conduct  was  iierfect.     It  is  not  au  easy  positiou 


"i 


KDWAKl)  CillJliON  b7 

for  a  H.H1  Hiul  heir  to  rt-turu  amr  someyoaniof  for- 
«Hju  wlucatiou  to  fliMl  a«U'|)iuotb«'riu  powietwiou,  aud 
hw  owu  prosjHMta  euilwrnuiHed  aud  «erioualy  threat- 
«lud.     Bilt  tho  amiability  of  Gibbou  smoothed  all 
«liffieultii'8 ;  his  affection  for  Iuh  stepmother  was  dwp 
uud  touMtaiit,  unU  to  tbo  last  he  wu«  alwayH  williug 
to  make  sarrifices  that  her  jointure  iiiight  be  made 
siruit..     Ue  was  ablo  to  iiwpire  ho  luurh  love  iu  hiH 
(ri«*nd    Deyveidiui,    that  after  yeais  of  separatiou 
Dtyverduu  could  >say  that  he  bad  uut  pswsed  a  siutjle 
day   without  thiuking  of  him,  aud  couUl  imagiue 
iiothiug  moi-e  eouduiive  to  the  happiuess  of  botb 
thiiii  that  they  should  speud  their  old  age  together. 
Ytais  later,  wheu  he  wjw  greatly  eufeebled  iu  healthj 
the  ut;w8  of  Lady  Sheffield'»  deatb  waa  sufficieut  to 
make    him  break   up  his  home  at  Lausauue,   aud 
tniv.l  home  irøst-haste  that  he  might  cousole  Lord 
Sh.llield  iu  his  sorrow.    Iu  this  jouruey  ho  was  ac- 
eompajiitHl  by  the  sou  of  a  deoeswed  frieud,  who  was 
proud   to  aet  as  his  courier,  aud  Gibbou  remarks, 
"His  attachmeut  to  me  is  the  sole  motive  which 
lnomi>t«  him  to  uudertake  this troubh^some  jouruey." 
These  are  searcely  the  iucideutw  whieh  we  should  ex- 
pwt  to  iiud  iu  the  life  of  a  told-heartiHl  uiau.     Aud 
over  agjiiust  sud.  facts  as  Ihesewhat  is  there  to  sct, 
except   his  uccouut  of  the  rejisous  which  prompt  cd 
hii.i  to  rcuouuce  his  hoyish  love  for  Sustiuue Curchod, 
atttMwards    xMjulauie    Neckcr :      '«After   a    paiuful 
KtruKgle  1  yielded  to  ujy  fate ;  I  sighcd  sis  a  lover,  I 
olH'ywl  as  a  sou."     It  is  uot  au  uiiusual  thiiig  for 
youths  of  tweuty,  who  aiv  eutin^jy  depcudcut  ou  their 
paivuts,  to  l)e  driveu  to  a  simihir  couclusiou,  though 
liiey  ai-e  nircly  able  to  dc.s<ribc  it  with  sucli  artistic 
terseucss.     Yet  it  is  upou  this  «iicuiii.staiice,  aml  the 


«■ 


MICDOCOFY   RESOIUTION   TBT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


1.1 


15,0 


KÅ 

14.0 


1^ 
2.2 

1.8 


^  APPLIED  IN/MGE    Inc 

^^  1653   Easl    Main   Streel 

S^S  Rochesler.   New  York        14609       USA 

'«SB  (716)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^S  (716)   288  -  5989  -  Fax 


88      THE  MAKERS  OB^  ENGLISH  PROSE 


ir  i: 


i  .' 


L, 


imlbnii(U'(l  gossip  of  Roiiswau  which  spiaug  from  it, 
thai  (he  t-hai-ge  of  cold  heartediiess  against  Gibbon  is 
basf'd.     It  is  difficult  to  know  what  the  aecusc-i-s  of 
Gibbon  want.     80  far  as  one  eau  judge,  they  are 
aggrieved  because  he  did  not  defy  his  father  and 
elope  With  the  lovely  daughter  of  the  Genevese  pas 
tor.    The  commeuts  of  Rousseau  ai-e  both  spiteful 
and  ridieulous.    He  is  glad  that  Gibbon  left  her 
aloue,  aud  he  detests  him  for  doing  so.     If  he  ha<l 
takeu  her  to  Enghmd  she  would  have  l)een  miserable, 
and  because  he  did  uot  take  her  to  England  he  is  a 
heartless  trifler.    That  is  the  head  and  front  of  his 
ofleudiug.    If  the  charge  means  that  Gibbou  was  uot 
reckless  aud  romautic,  that  he  did  uot  spoil  his  life 
to  gratifya  boyish  attaehmeut,  aud  au  attachmeut 
which  later  years  proved  to  have  beeu  auythiug  but 
deep  DU  either  side,  theu  we  may  freely  admit  it,  aud 
all  that  it  implies.     Gibbou's  was  a  siugularly  equa- 
ble  aud  amiable  nature,  aud  those  solid  qualities  of 
aflfeetiou  which  characterized  his  conduct  in  the  most 
difficult    circumstauces   of  his  life— circumstauces, 
moreover,  in  which  romautic  people  ure  often  apt  to 
display  considenible  cupidity  and  selfishness— may 
very  well  be  set  off  against  that  lack  of  uuconsidered 
passion  which  iJousseau  aud  his  foUowers  so  much 
deplored  in  Gibbon. 

A  much  strenger  case  can  be  made  out  against 
Gibbou  on  the  score  of  his  lack  of  political  iusight 
aud  euthusiasm.  He  has  told  us  that  he  entered 
Parliameut  without  patriotism  and  without  pride. 
Ou  the  great  public  questions  which  agitated  his 
generation,  he  had  no  opinion  aud  uttered  no  voice. 
He  never  once  opened  his  lips  in  the  House,  aud  his 
services  Meie  limited  to  strict  party  docility.    He 


KDWAUD  GlIiBON 


89 


gave  his  vote  jus  occasion  requiivd,  without  fioubliiig 
liimself  With  any  inconvenieut  scruples  of  conscifuce. 
He  uever  gi-asped  the  political  facts  of  his  time,  and 
M-as  therefoie  absohitely  destitute  of  auy  real  visiou 
of  their  meaiiiug.     Ila  did  not  perceive  the  real  issues 
of  the  Americau  War.     Even  a  trifler  like  Horace 
Walpole  had  a  clear  view  of  the  case,  and  spoke 
of  it  uot  merely  with  stalesuianlike  prescience  and 
sagaeity,  but  with  urgent  patriotic  passion.    Gibbon 
looked  upou  it  with  aggravating  nouchalance.     He 
appears  to  have  had  uo  iuterest  in  a  struggle  which 
was  disniemberiug  the  empire  and  creatiug  a  new 
nation,  aud  he  could  never  make  up  his  miud  on  the 
great  issues  wliich  were  involved.     He  was  for  a  little 
time  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Tnide,  with  a  salary 
of  £1,000  . ,er  auuum.    He  says  that  he  uever  received 
so  much,  but  whatever  he  received  it  was  more  than 
he  earned,  for  the  duties  were  purely  nominal.     This 
was  one  of  the  abuses  which  Burke  attacked  with  his 
most  brilliaut  vehemence  in  his  great  speech  ou  Eco- 
nomicai  Reform.     "This  board,"  said  Burke,  "isa 
sort  of  temperate  bed  of  iuflueuce,  a  sort  of  gently 
ripeuing  hothouse,  where  eight  membere  of  Pariia- 
ment  receive  salaries  of  a  thousand  a  year  for  a  cer- 
tain  given  time,  in  order  to  mature  at  a  proper  tiuie 
a  claim  for  two  thousand,  grauted  for  doing  less." 
No  one  was  more  ready  to  concur  in  the  truth  of  this 
doscription  than  Gibbon  himself.     He  was  cynieally 
frank  about  the  motives  which  led  him  iuto  political 
life,  and  the  price  he  put  upon  himself.     The  only 
excuse  for  his  conduct  is  to  be  found  in  the  fsu-t  that 
he  lived  in  an  age  of  political  corruption,  and  that  is 
but  a  shambling  apology  for  an  historiau  of  Korne 
who  lived  in  the  jige  of  Burke.     But  the  truth  of  the 


00      TllK  MAKERS  OF  EXGLISIT  PROSE 

«iisc   is  thiit  (Jibbon   ncv«'r  oiight  to  have  eiitorc»! 
I':iiliaiii(iit  at  all.     His  Mas  the  teinperameut  of  the 
scliohir  who  lives  in  the  past,  and  is  witiiout  vital 
iiiterest  in  the  present.     His  iViend  Deyverdun  knew 
him  hetter  wlien  he  wrote  :    "I  udvise  you  uot  only 
not  to  solieit  a  plaee,  bnt  to  reliise  oue  if  it  were 
oftered  you,     Woukl  a  thousand  a  year  make  up  to 
you  for  th«'  loss  of  ti  ve  days  a  week?"     It  is  inipos- 
sibk'  to  grud^^e  Gibbou  the  two  or  three  thousand 
pounds  whieh  he  received  from  the  Governnient, 
wlien  we  reeollect  the  sort  of  nien  who  grew  wealthy 
tluough  the  lifelong  plunder  o;  tlie  public  purse,  but 
his  best  friends  must  ahvays  regre)  that  he  ever  ac- 
cepted  it.     The  Parliamentary  li  fe  of  Gibbou  was  a 
mistake  from  first  to  last,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
think  of  it  in  auy  other  way. 

When  Gibbon  turned  his  eyes  from  the  aflfairs  of 
English  politics  to  the  great  drama  of  the  Decline 
(md  FaU  of  Ancirnt  lioitie,  he  beeame  a  diflferent  man. 
Unable  to  discern  the  drift  of  Euglish  politics,  or  to 
understand  the  latent  forces  which  were  rapidly  pre- 
paring the  French  Revolution,  he  pierced  at  ouce  to 
the  secret  causes  which  broke  up  the  great«Nt  empire 
of  antiquity,  and  he  surveyed  that  tremeudous  scene 
With  an  intellectual  insight  which  genius  aloue  could 
confer.     Hitherto  he  had  engaged  in  no  pursuit  wliich 
had  really  lil)erated  the  highest  qualities  of  his  mind 
or  truly  interested  him.     He  had  In-en  indifferent  to 
love,  indillerent  to  the  military  dnties  which  absorbed 
his  early  manhood,  and  he  was  inditfercnt  to  the  public 
lite  of  England.     IJut  the  idea  of  the  mighty  empire 
of  ancient  Rome,  tlie  glory  of  its  power,  the  disinte- 
gration  of  its  strength,  the  long  n^cord  of  battles  and 
siegcs  which  dragged  it  to  its  tall,  the  iuternal  mo^  e- 


KDWAKI)  (iIHBON 


91 


mem.s  wliicli  niHlormiiMMl  its  despot  isin  and  shook  ils 
l.iidi-,  tlie  live  (vntuiics  of  tlijit  Slire  ainl  splendid  de- 
cay,  and  tlie  final  pathelieeontrast  l»el\veen  the  Konie 
of  llieCæsjii-s  and  Ronie  a.s  it  is  to-day-a  spoliated 
«I«.iy,  a  mined  splendour,  yet  still  majrnifleent  and 
iniposinjr  in  its  very  desolation— this  was  the  spectacle 
whiehsnddenly  broke  the  lethargy  of  Gibbou's  miud, 
antl  emancipated  it  with  a  giorions  liberty.     It  is  not 
infreqnent  to  fiud  a  really  gieat  niinusunk  in  apathy 
lor  Mant  of  a  c-onipelling  thouyht,  a  donauant  idea,  a 
«'onunensiuate    anibition.     Then    scmetbing    rouses 
snch  a  uiind,  and  at  the  toueh  of  a  uiagie  wand  its 
slumber  is  broken.     Sonie  hint  droi.s  like  a  seed  into 
Its  prepared  soil,  and  the  mind  Ixnomes  so reuewed 
and  vital ized  that  heuceforth  it  scarcely  seenis  tho 
same.     This  was  preei.sely  the  history  of  Gibbon's  in- 
tellect.    The  moment  when  his  imaginati ve  sympathy 
was  touched  with  the  thought  of  the  past  glory  and 
present  degradation  of  Ronie,  was  the  laoment  that 
fiwd  all  the  latent  powcrs  of  liis  genius,  as  ire  is 
fhawed  by  the  sudden   burst  of  summer  warmth. 
And  in  that  moment,  also,  l,is  years  of  wide  and  ir- 
reo^dar  study  bore  fruit.     A  point  of  combination 
had  boen  fonnd  Ibr  his  immense  knowledge.     He  had 
Imilded  better  than  he  knew,  and  on  that  foundation 
ofundisciplinedscholarsliip  whiehhe  hadlaid  by  liis 
own  unaided  industry,  there  was  to  rise  the  editice  of 
an  imperishable  fåme. 

There  are  two  noble  passages  iji  Gibbou's  writiugs 
which  are  kuown  to  all  readers.  The  first  is  the  nar- 
ration  of  the  inception  of  his  Mork.  "  It  wsisat  Rome  " 
says  ho,  ''on  the  ir.th  OctolKM-,  1764,  as  I  sat  musing 
amid  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol,  while  the  barefooted 
fnars  were  singing  vespers  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter, 


92      THE  MAKERS  OF  EXaiJSH  PROSE 


l> 


i 


f  hat  the  idea  of  Miitiiig  tho  «Iccliue  and  fall  of  the 
<'ity  first  started  in  my  niind."     The  other  t«ll8  the 
story  of  its  couclusion.     It  wsw  "  on  the  day,  or  ralher 
the  night,  of  the  27th   of  .lune,  1787,  betweeu  the 
hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  1  wrote  the  last  lines  of 
the  last  piige  in  a  summer-house  in  my  garden.     After 
laying  down  my  pen,  1    )ok  several  turus  in  a  btaceau, 
or  eevered  walk  of  acju-isis,  which  eommandsa  j>ros- 
peet  of  the  country,  the  lake,  and  the  mountains. 
The  air  was  temperate,  the  sky  wjis  sei-ene,  tlie  silver 
orb  of  the  moon  was  reflected  from  the  waters,  and  all 
Nature  was  silent.     I  will  not  dissemble  the  tii-st  enio- 
tions  of  joy  ou  the reco\ery  of  my  freedom,  aud  i^er- 
haps  the  establishment  of  my  farne.     But  my  pride 
wjissoouhumbled,  aud  a  sober  melancholy  was  spread 
over  my  miud,  by  the  idea  that  I  had  takeu  an  ever- 
lasting  leave  of  an  old  aud  agreeable  compauion,  and 
that  whatsoever  might  be  the  future  fate  of  my  history, 
the  life  of  the  historian  must  be  short  and  pi-eearious." 
The  real  story  of  Glbbon'8  life— all  that  the  world  de- 
sires  to  know— lies  between  these  years.     He  has  him- 
self  toldus  th"!t  at  first  hesurveyed  hisprojectat  "au 
awful  distance."     He  began  with  the  idea  of  writing 
the  history  of  the  declineof  acity,  and  did  not  realize 
how  vast  was  the  field  which  he  was  destined  to  oc- 
cupy,     If  he  hatl  foreseeu  in  that  moment  of  sympa- 
thetic  musing,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Temple  of  Jupi- 
ter, the  immeuse  toll  of  his  undertakihg,  perhaps  he 
would  have  renounced  it ;  and  if  he  had  uot  wandered 
among  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol,  and  the  melody  of  the 
vespers  had  uot  touched  some  finer  chord  in  his  nature 
ou  that  eventful  eveuing,  perhaps  his  gi-eat  book 
would  never  have  been  writteu.     But  we  mnx  call  a 
truce  to  such  conjectures.     It  is  by  such  seeming  acci- 


i 


EDWARD  (JIHHOX 


08 


dents  thut  givat  luiuds  are  prepared  lorgreat  achieve- 
uieuts,  au«l  iii  that  October  eveuing  Gibbou  found  his 
life-work,  literally  the  task  whieh  wius  henceforth  to 
absorb  eveiy  workiug  momeut  of  his  life. 

The  abidiug  siguificauce  of  Gibbou's  great  book 
lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  the  first  great  history  of 
niodern  times.     It  was  not  uutil  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  historie  studies  assumed  a 
large  importiince.     The  materials  of  history  existed 
in  abundance,  but  the  art  of  combining  iuto  one 
homogeneous  whole  the  scattered  memoirs,  chrouicles, 
and  documents,  in  whieh  the  past  had  received  a  sort 
of  piecemeal  entombmeut,  wtis  yet  in  its  infancy. 
Great  historie  collections,  like  those  of  Bymer  and 
Leibnitz,  existed ;  but  the  art  of  writing  histoiy  had 
scarcely  passed  beyond   the  stage  of  rudimentary 
chroulcle.     Voltaire  commenced    the  new  historie 
epoch  in  his  Affe  of  Louis  XIV,  nublished  in  1751, 
and  David  Hume  with  his  History  of  England,  the 
fii-st  volunie  of  whieh  was  published  iu  1754.     Unt  it 
can  hardly  be  questioned  that  these  histories  were  iu 
themselves  but  tentative  experiments  in  a  nov*  aiethod. 
Hume  made  little  pretonce  to  research,  and  Robertsou, 
who  followcd  in  his  footsteps,  mnCe  )--s.     Both  wrote 
excelleutly,  uud  Hume's  History  is  still  a  masterpiece 
ofstyle.     What  still  remaiued  to  b ^  done  was  to  ap- 
proach  the  study  of  history  in  the  spirit  of  scholarly 
inquiry,  totreat  it  with  a  true  comprehensiou  of  prin- 
ciples,  aud  in  a  broad  and  impartial  temper.     For 
tliis  task  Gibbou  wiisadmirably  fitted.     Tu  an  uncou- 
scions  fashion  his  whole  life  had  l)een  hisproparatiou 
for  it.     He  did  not  aim.,  like  Hume,  at  writing  morely 
a   lucid    record,  notable   for  its    literary   qualities 
rather  thau  its  research ;  uor  did  he  simply  take  a 


!H       TIIF  M       KRS  OF  KX(iLISH  PUOSK 


' 


t heine,  aiul  write  upoii  it  for  the  siiko  of  its  i.ictur 
ewiuepossibilities,  as  tiid  H(>l)eits(ui.  Hi>  bioujrJit  to 
his  titsk  a  miiul  that  had  b«'en  ste«'iK'(l  from  bo\  hootl 
in  literatni-e  of  the  past.  He  had  spared  uo  pjiins  to 
qnalify  hiniself  for  his  work.  He  had  sedulonsly  prof- 
ited  hy  every  meansof  preparation  thjit  the  scholarship 
ofhistinieaflfordetl.  ln  this  he  was  tho  forerunner 
of  (Jrote  and  Maeauhiy,  and  stands  in  the  field  of 
history  Jis  the  first  modern.  Later  historians  liave 
inipmved  upon  his  methods  aud  oorriK-ted  his  jndR- 
nients,  but  his  metliod  hits  ueverthelessl)eengenérally 
adopted  ;  and  no  higher  testiniony  to  his  work  can  bo 
foinuUhau  the  verdiet  of  Mr.  Freenian,  that  "what- 
ever  else  is  read,  Gibbon  must  be  read  too." 

(Jibbou'8  idea  of  history  was  a  great  series  of  im- 

posing  scenes,  a  vast  panorama,  full  of  movement, 

life,  and  brillianee,  but  buttressed  at  all  points  by 

solid  and  competent  scholarship.    There  is  a  gorgeous- 

uessand  pomp  about  Gibbon's  histoiy  which  has  never 

been  surpassed.     The  sentences  move  with  stately 

measnre,  as  it  were,  to  the  sound  of  some  vast  and  re- 

verbeititing  music.    He  never  drops  into  commonplace 

or  l)ecomes  colloquial.     It  would  perhaps  l>e  better  if 

he  did.     There  is  sometliing  in  the  acute  criticism  of 

Porson,  "that   he  draws  out  the  thread  of  his  ver- 

bosity  finer  than  the  staple  of  his  argument,  and  oc- 

casionally  reminds  us  of  that  great  man  Mr.  Prig, 

the  auetioneer,  whose  manner  \ras  so  inimitably  fine 

tliat   he  had   as  much   to  sjiy  upon   a  ribbon  as  a 

Raphael."     The  slyle  natuially  beeomes  oppressive 

from  itsvery  stuteliness,  and  the  mind  wearies  of  its 

sustained  i)omp  and  splendour.     His  epigrams  are 

wrought  witlj  laborious  skill,  and  his  sentences  move 

from  clima.T  to  dimax,  in  a  long  and  majestic  proces 


KDWAHD  (iinHOX 


05 


Hioii.  whii-h  Mujixcsts  Uh' nmrcli  <»f  ariiiifHoii  aday  of 

pomp  aiMl  pancant.     It  is  prwinineiitly  aii  aitiHrial 

styh'  as  (list iiiKuished  from  a  simple  style.     lint  wheu 

tlns  is  sjiitl,  tho  woi-st  is  sjiid  that  can  be  sjii<l.     Pora- 

pons  as  it  is,  Ihf  style  is  ajipropriate.     Tho  whole 

story  is  so  magnificent,  it  commaiuls  such  au  extm- 

ordinary  retrospect  of  human  preatness,  that  au  his- 

torian  may  weil  be  pardoncd  i  f  he  lavishes  upou  it 

all  the  adonuneuts  of  a  splendid  rhetoric.     Aud  it 

uiust    be  added    aiso,  in  all  justiee,  that  au  admi- 

rable  lueidity  charaoterizes  it  fioin  tiist  to  last.     If  it 

is  never  coUoqnial,  it  is  uever  slovenly  ;  if  it  is  some- 

tiuies  graudiloqu<Mit,  it  is  ahvays  olear;  aud  if  it  is 

not  supple,  it  is  ahvays  powerful  and  impressive. 

Th«'  great  blot  on  Gibbou's  HiHtonj  is  the  eutirely 
misleading  aud  offensive  account  which  he  gives  of 
the  eaily  Christians  in  the  two  famous  chapters  which 
coucIud(!  his  fii-st  volume.     From  his early  euthusiasm 
for  the  Church  of  Rome  he  soou  n^laps^d  into  a  sort 
of  eomplacent  and  good-humonivd  Voltairism,  aud 
this  temper  characterized  his  eutire  life.     ^..    has 
uone  of  the  gibing  bitterness  of  Voltaire,  none  c.  his 
airy  wit :  he  is  simply  full  of  good-natured  contempt 
for  religiou.     The  religions  side  of  his  uature,  like 
l)ar\vin's,  seeuied  to  have  suttered  from  permanent 
atrophy.     His  whole  luind  had  betMj  occnjMed  with 
othor  subjects,  and  In^  w:is  reaily  iucapable  of  under- 
standing  the  sublime  euthusiasnis  out  of  which  Chris- 
tianity  was  born.     Thus,   when  he  is  foi-cnl  to  deal 
With  the  rise  of  Christianity,  he  is  consisteutly  unjnst 
because  he  is  igu(u-jinr,  and  his  ignorance  is  of  that 
speeies  M-hich  no  scholaiship  could  eulighten.     He 
do.s  not  understand  Ilie  heart  of  mau,  and  is  a  stranger 
to  ifs  spiritual  aspirations.     He  attributes  the  growth 


!M5      TlIK  MAKERS  OF  KN(iMSII  PKOSK 

of  CluiHtianity  to  the  zeul  of  the  diristian»  ;  but  he 
does  not  tell  us  how  that  zeal  waa  kiudletl.     He  miy» 
that  the  dætrine  of  a  future  life  madeChriwlanity  a 
fruitful  force,  but  he  do««  not  tell  us  how  it  wa«  that 
this  doet  rint ,  whiolt  had  never  been  more  than  the 
vsmue  hope  of  aucient  poets,  suddenly  became  the  in- 
tense conviction  of  vast  masses  of  people,  who  were 
ready  to  stake  their  whole  lives  upon  it.     He  attrib- 
utes  the  noble  virtues  of  the  primitive  Christians  to 
their  care  for  their  rcputiition,  Jis  if  the  fear  of  Mrs. 
Grundj  could  ever  have  becn    ufficient  to  turn  the 
current  of  uotoriously  dissoiute  lives,  inanotoriously 
dissolut»  time,  and  iuspire  the  austerest  chastity  and 
purity  in  the  hearts  of  millions.     He  sjiys  that  the 
union  aad  discipline  of  the  Christian  itpublic  were 
the  sources  of  its  growth  ;  but  he  forgcf  s  to  tell  us  what 
was  the  basis  of  the  union,  and  out  of  what  compel- 
ling  forces  the  orgauism  of  the  Christian  Church  arose. 
The  spirit  of  the  niystic,  the  saint,  aud  the  martyr 
is  incompreheusible  to  him.     He  had  no  spiritual 
sensitiveness,  no  pious  aspiratiou,  and  he  cannot  un- 
deistand  thom  in  others.     Admirably  fitted  jis  he  was 
in  all  other  respccts  for  his  great  task,  he  vrar  •'bso- 
lutdy  unfitted,  by  the  very  nature  of  his  own  minu,  for 
this  most  important  sectiou  of  it.     These  two  chaptere 
mark  the  limitations  of  Gibbon's  miud,  and  are  au 
impressive  revelation  of  the  essential  earthliuess  of 
his  nature.     They  have  long  sinco  ceased  to  be  of  auy 
controvei-sial  valne,  and  are  romemberod  to-day  not 
for  auy  damage  they  did  to  the  Christian  faith,  but  for 
f  he  repioach  they  east  on  Gibbon's  historie  faiiness. 

Complacent,  epicurean,  studious,  Gihbon  was  essen- 
lially  a  man  of  the  pre-Revolutiou  time.  A  drama 
not   less  mavvellous    than    the   fall   of  Rome  was 


'«1 


KDWAUi)  (iinnox 


07 


inoparm-  lound  liim ;  hut  h«  i^iuMca   it,  aud  fiiiltHl 
to  romiHfheml  it,  for  the  siim.-  ivasoii  tliuf  Uv  faiird 
t»  uiuhixtaiid till-  oiijrin  uf  Cbrl.stiauity-a  ra.Iical  iu- 
noi  aiHo  of  llie  liuiiiaii  heart     Witliin  lwoyfai>  of  the 
n)mi.h'tioiiofliis///V</on/,  oii  the  verv  ni;,'ht  hi.sfri.-ml 
I)<'yvt  -duadied,  the  lijustillo  fell,  aud  the  «mit  lievo- 
lution  begau  ;  but  he  seenis  to  have seeii  iiothing  extra- 
onliuary  iu  this  tirstact  iu  the  tnigedy  which  was  to  n-- 
luake  the  map  of  Europe.     He  liv.d  his  life  after  hi» 
own  fashion,  and  «aw  nothing  of  the  woild  that  wa» 
travailing  in  the  birth-throes  of  a  new  era.     Hi»  books, 
hi.s  {Mu,  his  lettered  ease  were  all  in  all  to  hini.     It 
isaperfwt  picture  of  the  pi-e-Revolntion  littémteur 
that  is  given  us  in  this  vivid  little  etching  of  Colman  : 
"Ou  the  day  I  first  sat  down  with  Johnson  in  his 
rnsty  brown  suit  aud  his  blaek  woi-sted  stockiugs, 
CJibbon  was  plaeed  opposite  to  me,  in  a  suit  of  flowered 
velvet,  With  a  bag  and  sword.     The  great  historian 
wjis  light  and  playful-still  he  tapped  his  snuflf-lm, 
still  he  smirked  and  smiled,  and  rouuded  his  periods 
With  the  same  air  of  good -breed ing.     His  mouth 
uielhfluous  as  Plato's,  was  a  round  hole,  nearly  iu  the 
(Tutre  of  his  vissige."     It  is  the  picture  of  a  cheorful 
epicurean,  quite  at  home  iu  the  world,  and  eontented 
on  the  eomfortable  assurance  that  it  is  the  best  of  all 
possible  worlds.     He  was  no  seer,  with  a  visiou  of  the 
deeper  forees  whieh  move  the  springs  of  human  his- 
tory ;  no  leader  of  men,  to  whom  men  eould  look  as  a 
tower  of  strength  in  diffieult  times.     And  therefore 
It  IS  that  we  remember  liim  as  awriter,  not  as  a  man  • 
but,  uevertheless,  as  the  writer  of  a  book  whieh  can- 
not be  displaced.     Profes.sor  Freeman'8  praise  is  his 
abuuug  monument:  "  Whatever  else  is read,  Gibbon 
must  be  rf  d  too." 


i 


VII 
LORD  MACAULAY 

BoKH  Oet.  25,  1800.  Knirred  Trinitjf  College,  dmbridge,  Oet., 
181H.  mtainrd  hin  Felhw»hip,  1H'.>4.  Milton,  his  JlrM  rmty,  ap- 
IHiiiH  in  Edinburgh  Keriiu;  AuguM,  IHart.  Memhrrfor  Vnlne,  1h:M). 
Miiilt  hilt  fint  grent  »pfrch  nn  Ut  funn,  1831.  Aevtpl»  pt>»t  of  It  gal 
adrimr  lu  the  Suprii  »■  Cuuncil  of  Jnditi,  and  unihftn  .Vadran,  Ftli. 
1."),  1m;{4.  Return»  to  Englund,  \K\^.  dirr»  up  ter  it  ing  for  thv 
Edinlmrg  Heriew,  1844.  Fint  rolume  of  hi»  Jliatorg  of  England 
puhliHhed  Nov.  29,  1H48.  Raiwd  to  the  jweragf,  Auguii,  1H57. 
IHed  I)ec.  *}H,  1859  ;  burird  in  n'vHtmin»ter  Ahhey,  Jan.  9,  1860. 

THEKE  are  two  piilureH  which  inesistibly 
8uj;gfst  theuj8t'lv«'8  with  the  iiieution  of 
Mat'iiulay'8  iianio.  The  tirst  is  of  the  Chip- 
luim  StTt,  amoug  whoiu  his  childhood  was  spent. 
The  sect  eonsisted  of  a  group  of  men,  most  of  whom 
were  deeply  ple<lged  to  evang«'lical  principies  of 
religion,  all  of  whom  shared  the  fervour  of  great 
philanthropie  enterpri.ses.  Sir  James  Stephen  hjw 
sketehe'."-  the  group  with  vividness  and  lidelity,  and 
lias  given  the  hint  of  bow  noble  a  history  might  be 
writteu  of  it.s  oharacter  and  work. 

It  wsis  in  the  house  of  Henry  Thorntou,  the  member 
for  Southwark,  that  the  gronj)  oftenest  met,  and  wer«' 
to  Iw  seen  at  their  lK'st.  There  was  found  \Villiam 
WillxM-foree  v  master  of  a  silver-tongned  elociuence 
unrivalled  in  his  day  ;  tJranville  Sliarp,  equally 
remarkable  for  the  resolntion  with  whicli  ho  dedi- 
eated  himself  to  public  purposes,  and  the  grave  and 
chivalrous  tenderness  of  his  private  ehanicter ;  Gis- 

98 


lAnil)  MA(  XrF.AY 


w» 


l»onH»,  known  by  IiIh  Iovo  of  Natuir;  \å}uI  Tt-ijjii- 
iiioiitli,  llu;  (■o.fniui-titiHTiil  or  liKiiii;  riiarlcH 
HiiiHHiii,  the  li«'ud  ami  iviuvscntutivo  o(  Kvaii^cljcal 
('liurclimaimbip ;  mruMioiially  '\Iuckiiit()Nli,  In>I(>V(><1 
for  liJN  l>cni);iiity,  im  wcII  as  Htiiuiicd  for  a  gfiiiiiH 
wliirli  ncvrr  ibuiul  adtHiuate  cxprcHHioti  in  lus  wiit- 
iiiKH;  Hiul  Kroui^hain,  w  om*  vcraiitilc  ability  wM-incd 
aii  adiniratioii  wliicli  s  clianicter  did  tiot  Huppoil. 
Hut  ill  all  tliis nicinon  o  jjioiip,  the  most  iviuu»'  'uiti 
man  \\i\n  old  Zaclisuy  Macaiilay  liiins«'lf.  ^  ;.t, 
anstiMP,  lioavy-browcMl,  tliero  was  a  simple  g,  .«Mir 
alNMit  hiiii  wiiich  niurkcd  liiin  thu  chict'  of  all  that 
J-.i  liaiit  ciiclc,  and  ox«'ited  a  laith  approacliiiig  to 
snpcistitioii,  and  a  lovo  lisinj;  to  cntliusiiism.  No 
man  was  evor  tronbicd  less  tlian  he  witli  a  thii-st  for 
the  liikle  honoui-s  of  publicity.  No  man  ever  cared 
less  for  f  lie  applaus*'  or  fashion  of  the  world.  Ile  was 
oiie  of  those  rare  men  who  are  eontent  to  toil  and  1m' 
forj^otteu  if  the  causo  to  whicli  they  have  devoted 
their  lives  succhhIs.  No  staiii  of  self-seekiiij;  wa.s 
ever  discovered  or  susiuMted  in  his  pnblic  life.  Ile 
did  ri;,'l!t  with  noble  fear'  sn-ss,  and  the  «li^Muly 
and  lieroic  temper  of  his  ehik  ter  arosc^  fiOin  its  sim- 
plicity,  its  coneentrati  )ii  atui  irs  nn-titnde. 

The  second  pictnr<  s  of  that  jjronp  of  Edinbnrph 
Keviewei-sr;  nif,' who,  i  rhomas  liabington  Macanlay 
was  to  occr  so  brilli.iiit  a  positioii.  Il  is  not  easy 
for  us  nowadays  to  niuhMstand  what  Rjive  the  Edin- 
bnrgh  liericw  its  {jreat  reputation  and  authority.  It 
piofcssed,  ofconrse,  to  be  the  orjraii  of  Whifj opinions, 
but  there  is  abnndant  evidei^ee  tluil  it  liad  no  very 
violent  passion  for  LilxTalism.  Scott,  who  was  as 
sonnd  a  Tory  as  oiie  conld  wcll  imajjine,  coiitribnted 
lo  its  pages  for  years,  and  "so  late  as  the  end  of  1807 


in 


Ih' 


100    THK  MAKKKS  OF  ENCJLISII  PROSE 

invitetl  Southey,  tliiMi  (U-vtiloping  iiitofleiferToryisiu, 
SIS  luriime  u  'rencgade'  or  a  'con vert,'  to  eulistuuder 
Jcllrey."     Nor  is  the  secret  of  its  eurly  suceess  to 
Ir;  fouiid  iu  tlie  brilliuuce  of  its  literary  achievement. 
Most  of  the  articles  were  hastily  writteu  by  men  who 
had  other  fish  to  fry,  and  thjy  bear  the  marks  of 
shallowuess  aud  earelessness.     Jeffrey  himself,  great 
as  Mjus  his  preteuce  to  critical  ability,  was  iu  reality 
as  bad  a  critic  as  oue  could  well  lind.     He  echoed 
rather  thau  guided  popular  opiuiou ;    he  did  not 
create    couditions    of    popuhir    appreciation,    but 
obeyed  them.     Ile  gravely  diseusses  the  immortality 
of  Mrs.  Hemaus'  poetry,  and  ssiys  (in  1829)  :  "The 
rich  raelodies  of  Keats  and  Shelley,  and  the  fautastical 
eniphasis  of  Wordsworth,  and  tlie  plebeiau  pathos  of 
Crabbe,  are  melting  fast  from  the  field  of  vision." 
The  only  poets  of  his  day  for  whom  he  predicts  full- 
uess  of  farne  are  Eogers  and  Campbell— the  v«  ry 
poets  who  iu  fact  have  meltod  fastest  "from  the  field 
of  visinn."     Still  more  flagrant  is  his  error  in  select- 
ing  the  finest  of  all  Wordsworth' s  poems,  the  Ode  on 
Ihr  InthnaHom  of  ImmorUiIiti/,  as  hopelessl;^  absurd  ; 
and   in  declaring  Goethc's   Wilfirlm  Mdnter,  which 
Carlyle  had  just  translated,  to  be  "so  mueh  tnish." 
The  real  reason  of  the  suceess  of  the  Edinlmrgh  Rn-icw 
Mas  that  it  was  fresh,  independent,  and  affoided  au 
opeu  door  for  new  writi^rs  who  mauifested  anything 
like  talent.     When  the  licriexc  was  started,  no  oue 
oonceived  of  magazine  articles  as  other  thau  ephem- 
eial,   and  consequently  such   work   as  deserved  to 
1k;  called  literature— woik  that  was  solid  and  noble 
in  quality,  first-nite  in  style  and  research— was  only 
to  be  looked  for  in  books.     It  was  Macaulav  who  did 
most  to  set  the  new  fashion.     He  and  Syduey  Smith 


LOKD  xMACAULAY  loi 

vv-ere  the  first  to  u.so  the  map.ziue  as  a  stoppinrj- 
>stoiu.  to  raraa««u8.  Yct  even  he  ai)oloK'izes  lor  the 
rei)ublioatiou  of  liis  es.says,  uud  exphiiu.s  that  the  ae- 
tiou  of  American  publishers  hiw  made  it  uecesssiry  ' 

Yet  when  all  deductions  are  nnide,  it  caimot  be 
demed  that  tlie  Ediubur-h  Keviewere  make  almost 
as  fascmatiug  a  groiip  as  the  Clapham  Sect.     Jefirev 
had  a  eertain  pertness  of  iutellect,  au  amusiug  vivac- 
ity,  and  a  real  kindliuess  of  nature,  which  make  him 
both  luteresting  aud  lovable.     The  suuuy  freshuess 
of  Sydney  Smith's  genial  humauity,  together  with 
his  quaiutuess,  his  nuforeed  humour,  and  his  rollick- 
ing  laugh,  are  sure  piussports  to  the  favour  of  pos- 
terity.     Brougham    is  interestiug  iu  auother  way 
Hewas  probably  the  most  terrible  coutributor  that 
a  Review  ever  had.     Ile  could  not  be  said  to  lose  his 
temper-he  had  noue  to  lose;  a  more  irasci ble  aud 
couceited  mortal  never  lived.     There  vnis  uo  limit  to 
his  powers  of  vituperation  aud  objurgation.     It  was 
impossible  to  satiate  his  appetite  for  praise,  and  he 
waa  uot  partieular  as  to  the  quality.     Yet  Brougham 
wjts  a  force,  aud  is  a  uuique  figure  both  in  politics 
ajid  letters     The  least  notable  of  the  group  was 
Horner,  of  whom  Sydney  Smith  s^iid  he  had  the 
Teu  Commandments  writteu  on  his  face,  and  looked 
so  virtuous  that  he  might  commit  auy  crime  with 
impunity. 

The  most  brilliaut  was  IVracaulay.  With  the  ap- 
pearauce  of  his  article  on  Milton  in' August,  1825,  the 
Edmburgh  Rerino  entored  on  a  fresh  lease  of  lifo. 
Jetfrey  asked  iu  astouislimeut  where  Macaulay  had 

.«'fril'"!!"'"  '"''^"'* ''  adnurably  treated  l.y  Mr.  Le^lieStephen 
in  the  third  senes  of  his  "  Hours  in  a  Library. " 


|!     ! 


1    ( 
I'    I 


^1 


103    THE  MAKERS  OF  EXGLISH  l»ROSE 

picked  lip  sueh  a  style.  Jt  was  the  lot  of  tlio  yoiing 
cs-siiyist  to  wakc  up  and  fiiul  liiiiis»'!!'  laiuous.  JUs 
articifs  so  iuipressed  Lord  Lansdownt;  thai  live  ycars 
later  he  offered  him  a  mat  in  Parliauient  for  the  bor- 
ough  of  Calue.  Previous  to  this,  in  1828,  Lord 
Lymlhui-st  had  made  him  a  Commissiouer  iu  Bauk- 
ruptcy.  At  thirty  years  of  age  he  had  already 
achieved  a  splendid  reputatiou,  aud  Avas  ou  the  high 
road  to  fortuue. 

Euglish  literature  certainly  records  uo  more  suc- 
cessful  life  thau  Macaulay's ;  the  eurreut  of  fåme  rau 
fiom  the  fii-st  with  a  steady  and  iuereasing  volume, 
and  knew  uo  obstacles.     He  did  not  experienee  what 
it  was  to  wait  for  the  tardy  recognition  of  au  uudis- 
ceruing  public.    One  reason  for  this  was  that  he 
wrote  iu  a  form  which  was  admirably  calculated  to 
appeal  to  the  average  intelligeuce.     He  was  ueither 
too  high  uor  too  deep  ;  without  writing  as  a  party 
haek,  he  yet  managed  to  be  judiciously  partisan, 
and  to  echo  popular  opinion  ;  without  being  original, 
he  had  struck  out  a  new  path  for  himself,  aud  was 
the  inventor  of  a  new  method.     His  was  not  one  of 
the  great  "semiual  minds"  of  literature.     He  trav- 
elled  aloug  a  broad  and  well-troddeu  road,  but  with 
distiuction  and  spleudour.     The  very  trials  of  his  life 
iMjcame  new  factorø  in  the  furthering  of  his  succcss. 
It  is  cuiious  for  us  to  learu,  in  thcse  days  of  high- 
priced  magaziue  ai-ticles,  that  IMacaulay  uever  earncd 
more  than  £200  per  aniuun  fiom  the  Udinhurt/h  Re 
view.     But  the  uarrowuess  of  liis  meaus  drove  him  to 
India,  and  his  residence  iu  India  broadeued  lis  views, 
aud  gave  him  leisure  for  study,  and  a  grasp  of  prac- 
tical  statesmanship.     Two  of  his  most  famous  essays, 
those  ou  Clive  and  Warreu  Hastings,  coiild  scarcely 


LORD  MAC  AlTLAY 


103 


have  iK-eu  wrilten  without  his  Imliaii  experienoe,  uimI 
wheu  Jæ  letmn.d  tVoi»  his  l.iief  exile  it  wus  jus  a luau 
of  ioitiuie.  .Nothiiij.,  iiuh^ed,  ever  seeius  to  have  ^oua 
wrong  With  Macaulay.  J fe  had  a  houiuI  head,  a  sound 
digestioii,  aud  a  comfortable  assuraiice  of  himself. 
He  stepped  iuto  the  areua  amid  a  peal  of  pmise,  aud 
the  plaudits  uever  cejised  while  he  oeeupied  it.  La- 
borious  an  his  preparation  for  writiug  ofteu  was,  he 
was  iuseusible  of  the  hibour,  aud  he  wrote  iu  pure 
joyousuess  of  heart,  and  out  of  a  leduudaut  fulluess  of 
kuowiedge.  It  would  be  diffieult  to  fiud  auy  paiallel 
to  the  eveu,  uubrokeu,  aud  consisteut  success  whieh 
characterized  his  career. 

It  is  unuecessary  to  dwell  upou  the  well-kuowu 
iucideuts  of  Macaulay'8  life.    Sir  George  Trevelyau's 
fasciuating  biogmphy  is  withiu  reach  of  all.     Such  a 
triuiuph  as  Macaulay'8  could  not  be  repeated  iu  our 
owu  day,  because  mauy  of  the  couditions  have  passed 
away.     It  is  uot  in  the  power  of  stjitesmeu  iu  our  time 
to  reward  famous  essayists  by  the  preseutatiou  of 
pocket-boroughs ;  uor  is  litei-ature  geuerally  considennl 
a  happy  appreuticeship  to  political  power.     But  for- 
tuuate  iu  this,  as  iu  everything  else,  Macaulay  ap- 
peared  just  in  time  to  prolit  by  the  best  qualities  of  a 
social  system  which  was  passing  away,  and  to  inhe.it 
the  opportunities  of  a  better  condition  of  things  which 
was  beginuiug  to  exist.     He  early  obtained  admission 
to  that  bnlliant  circle  which  gathered  round  Ladv 
Holland.     It  says  much  for  the  sturdy  mauhood  of 
Macaulay  that   Lady   Holland  never  attempted  to 
practice  on  him  those  imperious  airs  and  petulant 
capnces,  which  so  oftcu  made  her  drawing-room  a 
l>lac(^   of  torture  to  the  more  sensitive  guest.     It 
says  much  also  for  his  social  charm  that  Lady  Hol- 


104    THE  MAKP:RS  OF  ENGLISH  PKOSK 

laud  wrpt,  piotested,  aud  refused  to  be  comforted,  ou 
hia  departure  to  ludia,  and  altogether  behaved  sus  i  f 
her  jis.semblies  would  be  intolerable  without  him. 
But  Macaulay  had  the  knack  of  captivatiug  all  sorts 
of  people-eveu  Sjimuel  Rogers.     He  had  homeliness 
aud  good  huniour  as  well  jis  genius.     No  man  of 
great  parts  was  ever  aaiicted  less  with  a  seuse  of  his 
owu  importauce.     Carlyle  onee  observed  his  face  iu 
repose,  and  said  :  "I  notieed  the  hoinely  Norse  fea- 
tures that  you  fiud  everywhere  iu  the  Westeru  Isles, 
aud  I  thought  to  myself,  *  Well,  auy  one  can  see  ihat 
you  are  an  houest,  good  sort  of  fellow,  made  out  of 
oatmeal.'  "     In  the  same  spirit  Goldwiu  Smith  speaks 
of  the  homeliness  of  Macaulay's  appearance,  and  says 
that,  but  for  the  eyes,  his  was  the  sort  of  face  you 
niight  expect  above  a  cobbler's  aprou.     He  iuherited 
something  of  old  Zachary  Macaulay'8  simplicity  of 
nature,  and  had  no  pretence  about  him  and  disliked 
it  in  others.     He  was  thoroughly  honest  in  his  loves 
and  hatreds.     He  had  a  refreshiug  way  of  taking  his 
owu  course,  and  of  beiug  entirely  oblivious  of  current 
opinion.     He  wiis  never  guilty  of  hypocrisy  iu  mat- 
ters of  taste.     Thus,  whatever  we  may  miss  of  finer 
quality  in  Macaulay,  wa  are  always  eonscious  of  the 
sincerity  of  his  character;  and  to  whatsoever  heights 
of  fåme  we  follow  him,  his  nature  remains  uuper- 
verted  aud  impresses  us  by  its  solid  simplicity  aud 
strength. 

As  au  author,  Macaulay  attempted  three  roles,  aud 
iu  each  he  won  phenomeual  success.  He  was  at  once 
poet,  essayist,  and  historian.  His  Essays  are  prae- 
tically  oue  with  his  History  iu  spirit,  method,  and 
style.  They  are  what  tiie  rapid  sketch  is  to  the  com- 
plete  Picture,  oi-,  it  would  be  fairer  to  say,  what  the 


hORD  MACAULAY  105 

small  cauvjis  is  to  the  huger  one.     His  method  as 
historiiiu  aud  essayist  is  very  simple :  it  is  to  tell  a 
story  of  facts  in  such  a  way  that  it  shall  be  n.oie  in- 
teresting  thau  a  uovel.     He  says,  *'  There  is  merit,  110 
Uoubt,  m  Hume,  Robertsou,  Voltaiie,  and  (iibbon. 
Yet  it  is  uol  ihe  thiug.     I  have  a  couceptiou  of  his- 
tory  more  just,  I  am  couli('eut,  thaii  theirs."     The 
maiu  differeuce  iu  his  eoiiceptiou  was  that  he  aimed 
at  more  miuuteness,  vividness,  aud  artistic  settiug ; 
thus  he  was  more  pictorial  aud  dramatie,  aud  for  this 
reasou    more  effeetive.     "For  this,"   says    Dr    J 
Hutchih^u    Stirliug,    "he  amassed,   evea  while  at 
college,  iuid  year  after      ar  industriously  afterwards, 
all  those  great  stores  >if  readiug  aud  iuformatiou 
whieh  bore  directly  or  iudirectly  ou  this  greu.  sub- 
ject.     For  this  he  tried  himself  iu  relevant  periodieal 
papera,  aud  feared  no  waste ;  for  he  stiid  to  himself, 
eheerily  and  proudly  :  "  Oue  day,  iu  the  lougeveuiug 
of  my  hfe,  I  will  throw  over  these,  connecting  them  iuto 
oneness,  the  bulk  of  an  eutire  history ;  aud  this  historv 
over  these  essays  shall  be  as  the  great  dome  of  a  cathe- 
dral  that  closes  uuitiugly  over  its  many  rich  aud  splen- 
did chapels."     Perhaps,  in  this  couceptiou  of  how  his- 
tory should  be  written,  the  weakest  poiut  is  the  immense 
accumulatiou  of  detail.     The  five  volumes  whieh  he 
wroie  cover  ouly  fift(«u  yeam  ;  aud  had  he  eiuried 
out  his  original  idea  of  bringing  the  history  dowu  to 
the  reign  of  George  IV,  aud  upoii  the  s;ime  scale, 
at  least  fifty  volumes  would  have  beeu  ueeded.     It 
may  therefore  be  justly  doubted  whether,  iu  the  c 
ceptiou  of  how  history  should  Iw  writteii,  Macau 
is  really  superior  to  Hume  aiu.  Ciibbou 

There  is  uo  doubt,  however,  that  iu  tJu'  picturesque 
groupiug  of  material,  Macaulay  has  uo  superior,  jw 


HiiiaHi 


HHI 


100    THE  M/KEIW  OF  EXUIJSII  PljosE 

wc  shall  have  orfsusion  lo  icinaik  further  oii.     Tliis, 
iiHlml,  is  the  most  -slrikiii;,' «iniility  of  his  poems,  as 
t>r  his  piose  writiuKs.     Jii   tiic  highest  seuæ  of  tlie 
woro,    Macaulay    w:is    not   a   poet,    ami    did    not 
fhiim  to  i.»-  one.     Ile  hjuI  uo  ear  for  the  tucrc  del    ate 
music  ofwords,    for  the  uobler  effects  of  rhytlim. 
This  is  suiHcieutly  evident  in  his  prose,  Mhere  the 
sentenees  do  not  gi-ow  out  of  eaeh  other  in  natura! 
order,  but  are  accumuhited  oue  above  another,  and 
otten  faU  ou  the  ear  with  a  sort  of  disagreeable, 
metallic  harshiiess.     But  the  pover  of  pietorial  etfect 
which  made  him  so  consummate  a  story  teller,  servetl 
him   equally   well    in   the   Lays  of  \Ancient  Rome. 
Kothing  fiuscinated  him  so  nuich  as  civic  state,  the 
greatness  of  lieroic  deeds  aud  uames,  and  here  he 
is  in  his  element.     His  power  of  painting  a  picture 
could  not  be  better  displayed.     But  he  dues  some- 
thing  more  than  this  :  he  succeeds  iu  kiudling  a  real 
enthusiasm  in  his  reader.     His  lines  are  terse,  cleai-, 
ringing  ;  his  narration  is  perfect.    The  force  of  these 
splendid  ballads  is  greatly  increased  by  their  sim- 
plicity  of  structure,  and  the  fact  that  they  are  almost 
unadorned.     It  is  not  surpris! ug  that  they  achieved 
a    pheuomenal    succoss,    eiguteen    thousand    copies 
beiug  sold  in  ten  years.     The  very  lack  of  the  higher 
qualities  of  poetry  wouid  help  their  sale,  as  really  as 
the  very  distinct  and  remarkable  qualities  which  they 
possessed.     While  y,\,  admit,    then,    that  Macaulay 
wjus  i.ot  a  poet,  yet  it  wiis  his  happy  fortune  to  inveii 
a  species  of  poetical  writing  that  was  jus  captivating 
as  his  prose  style,  and  is  still  unequalled  of  its  kind. 
Essentially,  the  qualities  which  underlie  the  Pocmn 
and  the  Uistoty  are  the  sjiuie  :  lucidity  of  statement, 


i 


LOUI)  MACAITI.AY 


1(>7 


vividnfssoiiK-ncpJioii,  aiul  uiiiquc  power  of  pictur- 
r.sqiic  vilWi. 

It    is  iiow  <he  fashion   to  attack,  not  merely  the 
^sl.vle  of  Ma«;aulay's  HiHtory,  but  ils  accunu-y  ;   hut 
M  ith  this  latter  attack  \ve  have  but  little  synipatliy. 
It  is  uaturally  a  very  ejisy  tiisk  to  flud  iD:,iauees  of 
erroneous  statement   and   iuiperfect  judfe'meut  iu  a 
history  exeeutt^d  ou  ao  vas^  a  scale,  yet  with  such 
niiiiufeuess  of  detail.    He  woald  be  more  thau  uiortal 
who  eould  tell  the  loug  story  of  warriug  factioiis  and 
intrieate  statesmaus  lip,  the  rise  aud  dissolutiou  of 
parties,  th^  disinteg  ution  aud  rebirth  of  empire,  the 
iutrigiies   of  courts    aud    cabiuets,    the    seerets   of 
embassy  aud  diploma,  y,  the  individual   force  iuid 
impressiou  exerted  on  their  times  by  actor   after 
actor  iu  oue  of  the  most  crowiled,  various,  aud  excit- 
iug  periods  of  history,  aud  commit  no  error  of  fact, 
pass  no  unjust  judgmont,  and  be  led  into  uo  mis- 
interpretatiou  of  act  or  motive.     Uudoubtedly  there 
areerrors,  aud  serious  erroi-s,  mi  Macaulay's  famous 
Ifislur».    i.  It,   ou  the  other  haud,  the  merits   ai-e 
conspicuous  aud  uui'3ue.     He  marshals  his  facts  with 
a  maiJttrv  precision  aud  orderliness.     Never  was 
history  designed  ou  so  viwt  a  scale  before,  yet  with 
such  atteution  to  miuute  details.     It  has beeu  happily 
likcuedby  Mr.  Cotter  Morrisou  toaGothiecathedral, 
where  every  separate  stoue,  and  even  those  lei;st 
likely  to  be  observed,  has  been  carved  with  exquisife 
lidelity  to  art.     Every  panigraph  is  crammed  with 
information,  and  informatiou  drawu  from  the  most 
obscure  and  uulikely  sources.     It  is  perfectly  amazing 
to  reflect  on  the  immense  amount  of  historical  infor 
matiou  which  the  diligeuce  of  Macaulay  ha^i  accumu- 


I  i 


'.n 


108     TUE  MAKKHSOF  KX(JLISII   IMiOSK 

lal«'<l,  and  tlio  jjisusp  ainl  t«'im«it.v  of  «iHMininoiy  in 
which  it  w:w  stoivd.     Darwin,  in  liis  untohiotmiphy, 
d«'Ncrilx's  liis  own   niind   as  a  sort   ol"  niachino  fi.r 
KiindinK  .)ut  goin-ml  laws  from  tlie  nuiss  of  facts  and 
ol)s«.rvations  whicli  it  liad  amimulated  ;  and  it  niay 
Ih'  8iii<l  in  tln^  Hiune  way  that  Macanlay's  niin<l  wjus 
a  sort  of  luavhiuo  for  the  accumulation  and  digestion 
of  inunense  mjwses  of  liistorical  information.     Unt 
.Alacaulay  is  a  consununatc  rhetoriciau,  whit-h  Darwin 
wiis  not.     All  this  euonaous  mass  of  knowlcdge  in 
shapwl  and   used  with  the  finest  literary  skill,  aml 
w:t'i  exeellent  literary  judgnient.     He  never  wearies 
Ins  reader,  and   uever  rctanls  the  progress  of  his 
story  by  his  oruditiou.     Every  fact  is  fitted  to  its 
phue,  and  has  its  exact  be.uing  ou  the  elucidation 
of  his  theme.     It  haa  been  said  that  no  pw^t  but 
Milton  could  have  moved  under  the  weight  of  learn- 
ing  With  which  his  poetry  is  loaded,  aud  it  may  be 
said  With  equal  truth  that  uo  historiau  but  Maraulay 
mild  have  borue  with  ease  the  gigautic  burden  of 
knowledge  with  which  his  Hisiory  faniiliarizes  us. 
He  uever  betrays  the  slightest  sigu  of  weariuess  or 
exhaustiou.     The  very  structure  of  his  senteiices  is 
full  of  life  aud  briskuess.     They  give  the  impression 
of  au  eager  aud  alert  iutellect,  impatieut  to  get  ou 
rapidly  with  its  tiusk.     If  there  is  auy  quality  iu 
Macaulay's  style  which  produces  a  seuse  of  weariuess, 
it  is  that  it  is  almost  too  brilliaut :  the  autithescs 
c-ouie  iu  too  nipid  aud  dazzling  a  succession,    the 
ilietorical  artifice  is  too  little  coucealed,  aud  we  feel 
that  a  little  homeliuess,   au  occasioual  lapse    iuto 
suuplicity,  would  be  a  welcome  relief. 

Yct   how   vivid  and   dear  the  style  is !    Jeflfrey 
uiight  well  wouder  where  he  had  picked  up  such  a 


LOUI)  MACArLAY 


H>9 


M.Vl«'.     It  tjlilhis  like  tuiniislHHl  Hh**'!.     It  trav<Is 
from   rliiiiax    lo  cliiimx   without  u  panst'  to  Uiaw 
hn-atli  and  ivst.     Tlu-ie  ar«  no  intcivalM  of  Hinulow, 
it  iH  triH';  and  that  is  wliy  the  miml  tiivH  with  it' 
SIS  the  vye  is  oppiossed  by  the  coiitiniK.us  glare  of 
too  Hti-oiijr  a  light.     But  it  is  asustuiiifd  aud  splendid 
pageant,  which  makes  all  other  modes  of  writing 
histoiy  8*'em  flat,  stule,  aud  uupiofitable.     Its  pagts 
are  a  long  successiou  of  Rubeus-like  pittures  ;  aud 
i  f  Ihey  lark  tlie  graudeur  of  liulieus,  aud  are,  like 
his  Pictures,  often  coarse  iu  colour,  they  are  ahvays 
lM)ld  aud  vivid,  aud  ofteu  splendid  aud  superb.     It 
is  not  the  sort  of  history  to  touch  the  heart.     The 
pictui-es  of  Rubens  are  not  the  pictures  which  touch 
the  heart.     They  amaze   us  with    their   wealth  of 
colour,  their  maguificeut  scale,  aud  their  mastery  of 
executiou.    So  Miuaulay  amazes  aud  delights,   he 
excites  aud  iuterests,  he  liolds  us  spellbouud  with 
the  witcheryof  his  art;  but  he  si^ldom  touches  the 
emotious,  aud  scnsatiou  succecds  seusation  so  nipidly 
that  we  have  scarc^ly  time  to  feel  deepiy.     We  are 
hurried  ou  as  meu  are  hurried  ou  iu  the  shocks  and 
chargés  of  a  great  battle,  and  the  excitemeut  is  too 
grcat  for  i-eflectiou.     Few  novelists  have  ever  dis- 
played  half  the  art  of  seusjitioualism,  in  its  really 
legitimate  seuse,  Mhich  Macaulay  manifests.     He  is 
a  master  of  plot,  and  he  makes  the  commonplace 
facts  of  history  more  fiusciuating  than  romance.     Aud 
occjusionally,   too,  he  is  profouudly  moved,  aud  liis 
words  quiver  with  genuine  enthusiasm  aud  pathos. 
IIis  descriptiou  of  the  acquittal  of  the  Seven  Bishops, 
and    of  the  siege  and   relief  of  Londonuerry,   are 
among  the  finest  instances  of  tliis  rare  display  of 
emotiou    iu  Macaulay.     They  aie  uot  merely  tiue 


no    TIIK  MAKKKS  OF  K\(JLISII  1»U()SI.: 

«•.\aiii|iI.'H  oi-pictoiial  iM.wn-,  biit  ihvy  pali.ilal.'  wilh 
K«'iiuiiu'  moral  «'anu^tiifss  uml  eiithuxijijsiii.  Tliry 
maik  ti».  hijrhr.Hf  iM)iiit..  of  tlu'  IMon/,  and  are  tli.. 
lM'st  possibl,.  ],r(M>fs  of  Macanla.v'N  hiNlori«al  K.iiiiiM. 

Tl..'  Ijiiiitatiotis  of  3Ia(au!ay'.<  genius  are  nnmy,  and 
are  diMfinet  to  flu.  niost  «-asual  observer,     t^ualiti.-s 
and  <Iefed8  alike  appear  wiMi  a  sin-ular  deHnileness 
of  outline.     Perhai)s  his  woist  defeet  was  a  habit  of 
imputing  niotives  to  tliose  with  wlioni  he  disajrn-ed. 
Tbis  is,  perhaps,  sls  it  has  Imm-u  well  «leserilH'<l,  '«a 
vne  of  rirtituch."  ;  but  it  is  not  a  pleassmt  viee.     It 
leads  him  to  see  all  thinjjs  in  blaek  and  white,  to 
eataloK«ie  the  eharaetei-s  of  men  and  women  in  east- 
ir«.n  <ategories,  and  to  mi.ss  those  tiner  and  moi-e 
deheate  shades  of  distinetion  whieh  can  only  ln-  dis- 
eovered  by  a  sympafhetie  insight.     His  world  is  full 
of  shei'p  and  goats,  and  he  is  fond  of  antieipating  the 
last   assize  in  his  methods  of  summary  s«'paration. 
For  the  al  pacas,  those  cnrious  creaturcs,  which,  as  a 
brilliant  wriler  in  the   Xinrtmitli   Oiilim/  once  iv- 
inarked,  are  half  slicep  and  half  goat,  an<l  l)elong 
wholly  to  neither  class,  he  has  no  sympalhy.     He  is 
intent  on  drivii'-  theni  iuto  one  or  other  of  his  pens : 
h«^  insisfs  that  whatever  art  of  simulalion  niay  IhJ 
Iheirs,   they  are   eitlier  good  or  bad,   and  must  \^o. 
jndged  accordingly.     Perhaps  the  strict  Cal  vin  ist  ic 
basis  of  his  early  training  had  something  to  do  with 
this.     The  theology  „f  his  yonfh  was  clear,  liard,  and 
logical,  and  it  lefl  ifs  impress  forever  on  his  mind. 
Hut   .n  the  later  yea.s,   when  he  became  a  literary 
artist,  It  liniit<'(l  his  view,  and  gave  liim  a  touch  of 

l>harisjiism,  a  dogmaticasscrtiveness  of  superior  virt  ne 
ni  Ins  .jndgm.M.ts  of  mon.  which  Ma.s  at  the  least  un- 
charitable,  and  was  oft.-n  positively  oflensive.     We 


I/)Rn  MACAUI.AY  m 

UiinA  ill  him  «Imt  Kcnial  huiuiinity  wliicli  ctiarnm  m 
hy  i(.s  tulholii;  kindiiiwsH.     liv  icim-In  u.s  liy  tliJH  vi«v 
of  nrJitude.     Thls,  for  exami)!..,  \s  Iijn  vh-w  of  Sir 
WiiiUn-  Scott:   "lu  politicH,  :i  lijtu-r  aiul  niiHcrupu- 
louH  paitisiui ;  profuse  aiul  oslentatlous  in  «'xpi-iL^H;; 
agitatod  by  tlio  hopt-H  aiul  fnira  <»r  a  gaiiil»I«'r ;  imt- 
IM'tually  siuTiticiug  tljo  perffftiou  of  his  foinpoHitionH, 
aiiHl  tlie  Uurability  of  his  famc,  to  hi»  eagcriuw  for 
iiioncy;  writing  with  slovculy  haste  of  DryUuii,  in 
oidor  to  sjitisfy  waiits  whieh  were  not,  like  those  of 
DrytU-n,  causetl  by  cireumstauces  beyoiui  his  «ontroi, 
but  wJiicli  were  produml  by  liis  txtravagant  wiwté 
or  rapaiious  specuhition  :  tliis  is  tlie  way  in  whieh  he 
apiK'ai-8  to  me.     I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  I  sineerely  ad- 
mire  the  greater  part  of  liis  works;  bnt  I  cannot 
think  him  a  higli-minded  man,  or  a  man  of  very 
strict  priueiple."     Thore  is,  of  coni-sc,  .some  truth  in 
thc»^  strictures;  but  Macaulay'»  wa.  of  putting  tlio 
truth  is  so  exaggerated  tlmt  the  geueial  cffect  be- 
comcs  untruthful.     This  is  not  the  real  Scott,  the 
gemal  Sir  Walter,  whom  we  know  aud  love.     Aud 
won  if  the  half  of  this  description  were  justific<l, 
who  can  read  it  without  a  scnse  of  its  .sho<'kiug  lack 
ol  urbauity,  its  rudeuess,  aud  its  coarseness  of  ex- 
pr<'ssion  I 

Such  a  pa.ssage  as  this  is  the  clue  to  Macaulay's 
charactcr,  or  at  least  to  a  certaiu  side  of  it.  Wliat 
annoys  him  in  Scott  is  what  he  is  pieascd  to  term  his 
"cxtravagaut  waste,"  his  "ostentatious  expeusc," 
his  "rapacions  speculation,"  his  agitation  by  "th(> 
liopcs  an«l  fcai-s  of  the  gambler."  He  could  scarcely 
liiive  used  stronger  terms  if  he  had  In^eu  dealing  with 
a  bankrupt  tipstcr  or  a  convictcd  welshcr.  The  e\- 
planatiou  lies  in  the  lUct  that  Macaulay's  owu  tem- 


Uti    TIIK  MAKKUSOK  KNCJI.ISII   PROSK 


!> 


Iiniitiiiiil   wiis  wholly  «liHsimilur.     II»'  imd  u  lioii-or 
(>r«'Xli*:iViiKUii(«' ;  iiiid,  to  (to  iiiiii  jiiHtin>,  WiUi  |ii-o«li^al 
oiily  ill  IiiM  lM>iicriirtioiis.      Il<>  jovrd  qiiict  uiiil  Nimpje 
lift',     liv  liiul  Ihtii  tr.iiiH'(l  iii  a  lianl  wIkmiI,   aiiU 
kii»'W  the  valiK'    of   inoiiry.     Hv    luul    iH-ver    Ihh'ii 
tciiipttHl  by  lisky  tliiiiiiciiil  siMriilutioiis.     Il  wuh  mul 
of  liiiii  ill  later  li|\>  tliat  no  iiiaii  iu  tlic  city  of  liOiidoii 
|)oswsH«'«l  a  souiidcr  Imsiiicss  jud};iii(>iit.     IliH  intrjj- 
lity  liad  never  Hiitfcrcd  the  shadow  of  a  staiii ;  he  wum 
uprijiht,  and  proiid  of  his  uprij,dilness.     All  this  i.s 
to  Im'  aceouiited  to  him  for  rijjIiteouHnesH ;  but  out 
of  it  was  bred  tliat  <lo;;iiiatie  virtiie  wliieh  made  hiiii 
hanl   iipoii   all  who  did  uot  qiiite  eoiiio  up  lo  his 
owii  Htaiulard.     \Vhat  mjw  oiK-iihandedneHs  iu  H<*ott 
appeai-s  to  him  extravapiut  wsiste,  wliat  was  jjeiierouH 
thoutfhtlessiiess  is  thriftless  folly,  wliat  wais  the  reali- 
zatiou  of  boyish  dreams— the  buildinu  <>''  Abl.ot.Mbrd, 
and  the  fouudiiif,'  of  a  territorial  uame— is  mti-el> 
osteutatiuiis    expeuse.     He    falls   to   recoguize    that 
vela  of  romanee  whieh  coloured  Seotfs  life,  simply 
beeaus*'  ne  hims*lf  was  the  least  romaiitic  of  meii. 
He  «alis    by  hard    iiauus  what  were  sit   the  worst 
amiable  weakness«'s.     And  his  judgment  of  Seott  is 
paralleled  by  many  other  judjjments  whieh  disfigure 
his  7vW///»  au<l  his  Jfixtory.     He  wes  all  thiugs  from 
a  eomparatively  uarrow  standpoiut.     He  is  so  con- 
tident  of  his  own  justuess  and  omniseience  that  he 
admits  no   mitigatiou   of  penalty,   no   palliation  of 
error.     And  the  eons«'quenee  is  that  he  ofteu  exeeeds 
his   brief,  and   falls  into  exaggerations,  whieh   not 
merely  aunoy  us  by  their  uneonsidered  violeuce  of 
temper,  but  seriously  weakeii  our  faith  in  his  his- 
torieal  Judgment. 
Jt  must  uot,  however,  be  supposed  that  Macaulay 


U)ia)  MACAHLAY  113 

WiiM  ,,ver  i..U.„tio,mny  unfair.  („,  t|„.  mntmry,  h« 
Mrov.,  to  b,,  Htu.li«„«ly  j„.t.  Kut  .v.n  Hir  ({..r.» 
rit-velyuu  hH«  lo  mhult  tlmt  "  v..|M.n,t.«..,s  ovor-cof,- 
fi«  «ni..,  tho  iuubility  to  ViHogum,  thut  there  «r.,  twr 
8iUt«  to  a  qui'«tion,  or  two  iMH.ple  i»  u  (liHiocue 
were  defwrts  ui«,pamblo  iu  him  frou»  the  gift^  with 

To  him 
There  wm  no  pain  liLo  Bilence— uo  oonatraint 
80  dull  aa  iiiwniniity.     He  breathed 
An  atniOHphere  of  ufRunient,  nor  Hhr»nk 
From  mnkinK,  wliere  he  could  not  Hud,  ezoiua 
For  oontroversial  fight. 

When  Cmbb  Robinson  desrrihcs  him  aa  posseæiuR 
not    he  dehcate  foaturcM  of  a  mau  of  genius  and 
«ens.bil.ty,  but  the  strong  lines  and  well  kuit  liml« 
of  u  man  sturdy  in  mind  a-d  bo.ly,"  he  does  much  to 
reveal  th«  charactor  as  well  ;m  ,0  reeall  the  pres^Mue 
of  Macaulay.     The  .acuU-  by  whieh  he  understood 
luen  w;is  a  oertain  luminons  «hrewdneas,  and  it  took 
the  place  of  genial  sympathi.vs.     And   it  mu8t  be 
confeKsed  that  he  used  this  faonlty  with  excellent 
enect.     H,s  letters  and  diaries  ..re  full  of  notes  and 
inemoran.la  on  greitt  per...„ages,    clear  and  rapid 
etcluugs,  which  eonvey  at  a  stroke  his  impressions 
or  the  reported   in»pre^sions  of   others.     He  no  e; 
ho  tablo-talk  of  Koge.  ^i^h  evident  del^t  "u  d 

Clv^."' I  /'f  '"•"""'•^'  ^^  ^^^^^-'  "-  ^-  "- 
t  o.seIy  resenibh^d  eaeh  other  in  this  gift  of  hnninous 

shrewdness.     Hegers  told   him  that  Byron  was  C 

"«.pleas^int,   afleeted,   spl.netic    person,"  of   whom 

ionsjmds  of  people  mnted  who  had  never  seen  him, 

»)ut  that  no  ono  who  kmw  him  well  ev<T  meutioned 

nim  With  a  single  expression  of  fondness ;  aud  Mim-- 


_^ 


14    TIIK  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PIIOSE 


i 


i 


siulay  remaiks  that  the  woret  thing  he  kuoww  about 
Hy  ion  is  the  very  unfavounible  impressiou  which  he 
made  ou  men  who  were  not  inclined  to  jndge  him 
harshly.  It  is  with  a  touch  of  something  like  cyni- 
cism  he  notes  later  on  that  hisartiole  ou  Byron  is  very 
popular,  and  is  oue  amoug  the  thousaud  prools  of  the 
bad  taste  of  the  public.  But  Macaulay  was  auy- 
thing  but  a  cynic  ;  he  was  far  too  good-humoured  to 
b<^  really  spiteful  or  bitter.  He  was,  as  Crabb  Robin- 
son  says,  a  man  of  sturdy  mind,  robust  in  thought, 
clear-headed,  dictatorial  in  temper,  honest  and  just 
jK'cording  to  his  lights,  but  a  Mttle  hard,  a  little  laek- 
ing  in  delicacy  of  literary  perception,  and  altogether 
too  positive  and  controvei-sial  in  his  opinions  to  con- 
ceal  his  dislikes,  or  veil  them  in  urbanity. 

"There  never  was  a  writer,"  says  Mr.  Gladstone, 
"loss  capable  cJ  iuteutional  unfairness,"  and  the 
biography  of  Macaulay  aflfords  plentiful  proof  of  the 
pains  which  he  took  to  be  accurate.  He  complfins 
bitterly  of  the  unfairness  of  fJibbon,  nnd  indoi-ses 
this  pwuliarly  stinging  paragraph  of  Porsou's. 
"Gibbon,"  says  Forson,  "  pleads  eloquently  for  the 
rights  of  mankind ;  nor  does  his  hunianity  ever 
slumber,  unless  whou  women  are  ravished,  or  the 
Christians  persecuted.  He  often  makes,  when  he 
cannot  really  find,  an  occasion  to  insult  our  religion, 
which  he  hates  so  cordially  that  he  niight  seem  to 
revenge  some  personal  insult.  Such  is  his  eager- 
ness  in  the  cause,  that  he  stoops  to  the  most  des- 
picable  pun,  or  to  the  most  awkward  perversion  of 
language,  for  the  purjjose  of  turning  the  Scriptures 
into  ribaldry,  or  of  calling  Jfsus  an  impostor."  But 
Macaulay  is  (julte  as  prejudiced  and  unfair  in  another 
way.     It  is  not  that  he  hius  writteu  his  Histonj  in  a 


LOKD  iMACAUr.AY 


115 


spirit  of  vehemeut  partisanship,  as  is  eonstaiitly 
alleged.  It  cannot  be  said  of  him  that  he  wrote  the 
HiHtory  of  England  to  prove  that  God  was  always  on 
the  side  of  the  Whigs,  as  it  was  said,  with  some 
justice,  that  Alison  wrote  his  history  to  prove 
that  God  was  always  favourable  to  the  Tories.  On 
the  contrary,  wheu  we  consider  the  strength  of  his 
owu  political  couvictions,  it  must  be  owned  that  he 
has  showu  remarkable  self-restraint  aud  equitj'  of 
statement  in  his  treatment  of  parties.  He  blames 
Whigs  aud  Tories  alike,  and  visits  them  with  an 
equal  severity  of  castigation.  His  most  euthusiastic 
praise  is  ofteu  awarded  to  high-miuded  Tories,  as,  for 
example,  Bishop  Keu  aud  Jeremy  Collier.  If  he  has 
spokeu  harshly  of  the  Stuarts,  he  has  not  spoken 
uutruthfully,  and  the  great  majority  of  competent 
historians  share  his  views.  But  it  is  in  relatiou  to 
iudividuals  that  his  unfairuess  is  apparent.  His 
personal  likes  and  dislikes  goveru  him  ;  hisprejudice 
makes  him  come  to  the  worst  conclusions  about  per- 
sons he  dislikes,  upou  the  most  iusufficient  evidence. 
He  can  fiud  no  invective  strong  enough  to  express  his 
loathing  for  the  kuavery  of  Marlborough,  the  foolish 
vauity  of  Boswell,  or  the  polished  hypocrisy  of  Penn. 
Haviiig  arrived  at  the  conclusiou  that  Marlborough 
was  a  knave,  Boswell  a  fool,  and  Penn  a  Har,  he  is 
ineapable  of  recognizing  any  couuterbalanciug  quali- 
ties  of  good,  aud  every  time  he  speaks  of  these  men 
his  anger  aud  derision  beeouie  more  violent.  Thus, 
his  descriptiou  of  Broughanfs  viudictive  partiality  is 
ofteu  the  descriptiou  of  his  owu  couduct :  "All  the 
eharacters  are  either  too  black  or  too  fair.  The 
passioiis  of  the  writer  do  not  sutfer  him  even  to  uuiiu- 
taiu  the  deceut  appearauce  of  impartiality." 


.1 


r  I- 


h  i' 


VIII 
LORD  MACAUIiAY  {Continued) 

SO  strangely  is  hnmau  nature  constitiited,  that 
it  is  necessary  to  correct  aiiy  false  irapression 
which  Crabb  Robinsou'»  words  may  create,  by 
stating  that  lu  some  respects  Macaulay  was  amoug 
the  most  sensitive  of  men.  If  we  are  coiiscious  of  a 
certaiu  glittering  harduessof  mind  in  hiscontroversial 
diatribes  and  literary  verdicts,  we  must  also  recoUect 
that  his  lettei-s  and  di  aries  gi  ve  us  perpetual  evideuce 
of  the  goodness  and  tenderness  of  his  heart.  His 
whole  life  was  a  sacrifiee  in  the  interests  of  his 
family,  aud  a  sacrifiee  which  gains  much  in  magua- 
nimity  by  its  uuconscious  aud  uncomplaining  dignity 
of  endurance.  Wheu  his  friend  Ellis  loses  his  wife, 
he  sits  for  hours  listening  to  his  confidences,  and  not 
attempting  to  cousole  him,  because  he  feels  that  the 
ouly  consolation  he  can  offer  is  the  sociable  sileiu-e 
of  the  sympathizer.  Wheu  he  stands  in  Santa  Croce, 
he  notices  in  the  cloistcr  a  monumeut  to  a  little  baby, 
and  remembers  his  three-months-old  niece,  and  says, 
*<It  brought  tears  into  my  eyes.  I  thought  of  the 
little  thiug  who  lies  in  the  cemetery  at  Calcutta," 
He  is  easily  affocted  in  the  same  way  by  great  his- 
torie memories,  or  by  pathotic  no  vels.  Wheu  ho 
stands  for  the  first  time  in  St.  Peter' s,  he  says,  "I 
could  have  cried  for  pK'asure."  Ile  is  nuich  movcd 
beside  the  tonib  of  Michael  Augt^lo,  and  at  the  grave 
of  Dånte  says  :  "  I  was  very  near  shedding  tears  as  I 
looked  at  this  niagnificent  monument,  aud  thought  of 

116 


LOUD  MACAULAY 


117 


the  snttcrings  of  tlie  great  poet,  aiul  of  his  incoinpa- 

lablf  gt;iiiu8,  aud  of  all  the  pluiusurc  I  have  tlerived 

from  hiiii,  aud  of  his  death  iu  exile,  aud  of  tiie  late 

ju.stice  of  posterity."     Ou  his  jouruey  through  tiie 

Poutiue  marshes  in  this  s;uue  Italian  tour,  he  reads 

Bul\vei\s  Alice,  aud  is  alleeted  by  it  iu  a  way  he  hua 

not  beeu  aflected  for  years.     ' '  I  udecd, ' '  he  eoutiuues, 

"  I  geuerally  avoid  all  uovels  whieh  are  sjiid  to  have 

uiucli  pathos.     The  sulFeiiug  they  produce  is  to  me  a 

very  real  suflferiug,  aud  of  that  I  have  quite  euough 

without    them."      His    passion    for    Clurlum    Ifai- 

loar  is  well  kuowu.     How  mauy  times  he  read  that 

prodigious  uovel,  aud  how  ofteu  he  wept  over  the 

sorrows  of  its  heroiue,  uo  oue  kuows.     Every  oue 

will  remember  how  he  justified  his  meltiug  mood  by 

the  story  of  the  way  iu  which  the  book  was  read  by 

his  friends  at  an  ludiau  statiou  in  the  hills  :    "The 

Governor's  wife  seized  it,  the  Seeretary  waited  for  it, 

the  Chief- Justice  could  not  lead  it  without  tears; 

aud,  fiually,  an  old  Scotch  doctor,  u  Jaeobiu  aud  a 

free  thiuker,  cried  over  the  last  volume  till  he  was 

too  ill  to  appear  at  dinner." 

Perhaps  oue  explauatiou  of  some  of  these  defeots 
whieh  we  have  enumerated,  »-  ihat  Macanlay  iii.jured 
his  liteniry  taculty  by  his  political  activity.  Xo 
mau  can  serve  two  masters,  aud  it  was  not  till  late 
i«i  life  that  he  chose  what  he  kuew  to  be  the  better 
l)art.  The  praetieal  grasp  and  deeisiveuess  of  his 
judgmeut  were  admirable  qualilieatious  for  a  gieat 
party  leader.  It  is  very  easy  to  imagiue  Macanlay, 
had  he  started  with  dilierent  soeial  advautages, 
beooming  an  ideal  Premier.  As  a  parliamentary 
orator  he  ranks  with  the  highest :  the  cry  that 
Macanlay  wsis  "up"  was  al  way  s  sufficieut  to  secure 


r:a 


lis  thp:  makers  of  english  prose 


f  i 


W 


a  fiowded  House.  His  admirable  lucidity,  Lis  powci 
of  picturcsque  uarratioii,  his  defiuituut-ss  of  vit'M,  his 
pmctical  grasi>  of  tht>  main  issues  of  a  debate,  his 
bard-hittiug,  his  vivacity,  his  eloqueuce,  wcre  pre 
cisely  the  forces  which  the  House  of  (Jommous  uiost 
appreciates,  and  which  do  most  to  lift  a  debater  iuto 
power.  But  these  very  qualificatious  for  politieal 
life  were  disqualiticatious  for  literary  pureuit.  Th»' 
oratorical  style  aud  temper  are  fatal  to  the  peifettiou 
of  literary  style.  ln  oratory  it  is  necessary  to  paiut 
with  a  broad  brush  anil  stroug  colours,  because 
immediate  elTect  is  the  aim.  The  more  delicate 
gradatious  of  colour  are  not  noticed,  and  are  not 
ueeded ;  but  iu  literature  the  very  opposite  is  true. 
It  is  delicacy  of  perception,  synipathetic  insigV^ 
gradatiou  of  colour,  that  makes  style.  No  one 
kuew  this  botter  than  Macaulay  ;  he  felt  that  liie 
political  and  literary  lives  could  ouly  be  united  to 
the  detrimeut  of  both.  But  he  was  unable  to  shake 
himself  free  from  the  iufluences  of  the  House  of 
Couinions.  The  sharp  divisions  of  opinion  which 
politics  had  taught  him  v  ere  carried  witu  him  into 
literature.  He  was  destitute  of  philosophic  calm  ; 
the  whole  force  of  his  training  made  him  take  a  side, 
aud  the  exaggerations  of  colour  which  had  servcd 
hin.  excellently  in  i>arliamentary  oratory  were  still 
retaiued  in  historical  disquisition.  Had  Macaulay 
never  entercd  Parliameut,  had  he  bcen  conteut  with 
a  li^e  of  liteiary  production  from  the  first,  thcre  can 
lx;  no  doubt  that  his  work  would  have  bcen  far  more 
finished,  and  his  temper  far  calmcr,  and  thercfore 
better  able  to  deal  with  those  great  problems  of 
personal  character  in  which  history  abounds. 

It  is  really  the  parliameutary  debater,  rather  than 


LORD  ^fACATn.AY 


119 


the  litt^rat<*ur.  who  spcaks  in  such  an  essay  as  that 
on  KolKiit  Montgoniery.  MontKomery  was  a  bad 
poet,  and  an  absurd  poot,  and  his  popularity  was  a 
public  absnrdity  which  doserved  denunciation.  Yet, 
after  all,  Macaulay's  castigation  was  out  of  all  pro- 
portion  to  the  offence  ;  but  it  was  the  case  of  a  good 
opportunity  of  attack,  and  Macaulay  seized  it,  as  he 
won  Id  have  seized  a  similar  occjision  in  the  House. 
Oiie  suspects  that  in  this  aud  iu  many  other 
iiistances,  he  wius  carried  away  by  his  own  ini- 
nieasursible  copiousness  of  vocabulary.  Adjectives 
crowd  upon  hiui  as  he  writes,  aud  he  uses  not  the 
most  suitable  but  the  most  souorous.  He  soou  lashes 
himself  into  a  fine  simulation  of  anger,  and  is  the 
victim  of  his  own  deception.  He  lives  upon  antith- 
esis — he  sees  human  life  itself,  and  human  character 
too,  as  a  vast  antithesis.  He  hits  a  sort  of  schoolboy 
delight  in  the  use  of  a  telling  phrase,  and  he  hns  a 
schoolboy'8  carelessness  of  verbal  exactitude.  He 
is  not  content  to  inform  us  that  sorae  one  wjis  a  bad 
man :  he  tells  us  that  the  turpitude  of  his  conduct 
was  only  equalled  by  the  malignancy  of  his  temper, 
and  that  the  meanness  of  his  character  wits  paralleled 
by  the  corruption  of  his  thought— or  some  other 
equally  sounding  phrase.  To  use  the  right  word  — 
the  one  right  wor''  in  all  the  English  language — 
which  illumines  '  'i  a  flash  of  light  the  whole 
subject,  is  an  ai  .ose  rudiments  he  has  never 
learned.  He  exce).-  in  sonorousness  of  language — 
not  in  preoi.Ston  ;  and  in  this  respect  his  style 
rescmbles  Johnson's.  But  he  ents  Joa..:^iOn's  para- 
graphs  up  into  sparkling  seutences,  aud  uses  full 
stops  where  Johnson  used  colons.  He  retains  the 
balauce,  the  antithesis.  the  pomp,  but  he  adds  a  new 


L  ■ 


120    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLI8H  PKOSE 

vivjuity  suid  glitter.  Wbeii  he  stiys  tbat  Johiisou'» 
stylt'  is  *'8U8t{iin«Hl  ouiy  vvitb  constjint  effort,"  aud 
tliat  his  "big  words  are  wasted  on  littlc  thiugs,"  he 
is  uiiconsciously  dtwiiibiiig  his  owu  defecta.  His 
owu  worst  literary  vice  is  his  lack  of  proportiou,  aud 
bis  entire  inattention  to  Ihose  lav  ol"  light  aud  shade 
which  regulate  the  highest  litiTary  art. 

Macaulay's  essay  ou  Johnson  is  in  itself  an  alujost 
l)erle<rt  example  both  of  the  grcitness  and  the  limita 
I  ions  of  bis  pow«'r ;  it  displays  his  unrivalled  faculty 
for  the  collectiou  of  dt-fciiis,  and  equally  his  all  but 
total  hu-k  of  real  insight.     He  sees  Johnson,  as  he 
sees  all  the  persouages  he  deseiibes,  entirely  trom  the 
outside.     He    categories    all    his    peciiliarities,    his 
sloveuly    disorder,    bis    boorisbness,    his    voracity, 
his  oddities  of  speech  and  gesture,  his  superstitious, 
his  huniorons  petulances,  his  grotestjue  absurdities, 
and  tbinks  tbat  U^  hua  painted  the  man.     "  Macaulay 
is  never  more  at  homo  than  in  such  scandal,"  it  has 
been  well  said ;  '-the  eating,  driuking,  aud  clotbiug 
of  men,  tluir  mistross(?s,  their  warts,  their  bandy-legs, 
or  their  red  noses— Maeaulay  has,  in  such  c-uriosities, 
absolutely  tho  f laotr  of  a  collector."     But  be  never 
ouce  recognizcs  the  giandeur  of  tbat  spirit  which  is 
concealed  beneath  tbis  uncoutb  exterior.     We  must 
go  to  Carlyle  for  tbat  visiou.     Jfe  bas  the  propbetie 
insight  which  interprets  the  whole  nature  of  a  man 
iu  a  single  signillcaut   pbrase.     His   power  is  the 
power  of  understaudiug  the  soul  of  a  man.     Carlyle 
paiuts  a  portrait  which  lives,  Mm-aulay  constructs  an 
elaborate  mosaic.     Any  historie  peisonage,  even  the 
bumblest,  who  bas  ouce  been  batbed  iu  the  searcbing 
light  of  rarlyle's  imagination,  is  heuceforth  known 
to  us,  aud  is  instinct  with  vitality.     But  the  most  we 


LORI)  MACAULAY 


121 


é 


learn  from  ^liuaiiliiy  is  how  sncli  u  jurson  drcssctl 
hiH  hsiir,  ate  lii.s  diniær,  «»r  treatinl  his  witV>.  Cjuiylt' 
givrs  us  the  cssfiiliul  man;  ''acaulay  euumnral".s 
the  mtTc  accideiits  of  the  maii's  litV.  It  is  inflnitely 
vivacious,  ent*jituiniii{j:,  aud  Iksciuatiug ;  but  it  is, 
after  all,  au  iuferior  form  of  art  wliicli  addresses  its<>lf 
to  iuferior  iuteliigeuees.  The  faet  which  stands  out 
most  clearly  alK>ut  Jolnisou  iu  Macaulay'»  ess:iy,  au(i 
whieh  is  uiost  distiuetly  reuu^mbered  after  mauy 
years,  is  that  he  tore  his  food  like  a  famished  tiger, 
aud  ale  it  with  the  sweat  running  down  his  forehead. 
Aud  that  is  not  the  cardiual  faet  of  Johuson'8  per- 
sonalily.  It  is  not  the  thiug  which  is  best  worth 
recollectiug,  or  even  worth  remeiuberiug  at  all.  But 
it  is  thiugs  like  these,  obscure  aud  trivial  trålts  iu  a 
raan's  person  or  hal)its,  whieh  Miwtaulay  exalts  to 
first-rate  importauee,  and  which  are  offered  us  iu 
place  of  a  real  aualysis  of  his  eharact^r,  a  true  insight 
iuto  his  soul. 

Not  that  Macaulay  is  without  imagiuation,  how- 
ever ;  it  is  siniply  the  quality  of  the  imagiuation  that 
is  at  fault.  He  has  "epic  elearuess,"  ifhehiisuot 
dramatie  iuteusity.  He  has  photographic  vividness, 
if  uot  «'reative  genius.  There  is  aniple  evidenee  that 
he  did  not  even  understand  sonie  of  the  noblest  pro- 
duetions  of  the  human  imagiuation.  He  derides 
Speuser,  aud  calls  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  iutermin- 
able  twaddle.  He  is  iueapable  of  soariug  into  the 
higher  heaveus  of  vision.  He  had  no  hours  of  slill- 
uess  and  brooding  fancy,  out  of  whose  dept  lis  there 
was  at  leugth  evolved  the  true  image  of  a  num  or  a 
j)eriod.  He  loved  the  concrete,  and  his  mission  was 
to  illuminate  and  vivify  it.  That  species  of  imagiiia- 
tiou  whieh  fus«*.s  a  vast  uuiss  of  facts  aud  details  iuto 


1 


i  w  11 

ur 


i 


122    TIIK  MAKKKS  OF  EX(iLLSH  PUOSK 


W 


niH>  ghoving  wlioU»,  was  liin  in  jwiffctioii.     \Vv  liav»' 
iilirmly  s»'«'u  tliat  lie  ainicd  at  luakiiij,'  history  -ah  fus- 
«inatiiijj  nu  u  iiovt-l,  and  (hut  ln*  IniH  done.     To  do  so 
lio  tr«'attHl  it  a»  a  vast  poitiait-galit-ry,  and  did  not 
tionble  hiinstlf  with  tiu'  de^^per  curreuts  of  thought 
which  charactorizod  a  period.     For  the  subtler  forms 
of  criticism  he  feit  hims<*lf  unfltted,  and  owned  liis 
detVct  witli  tliat  perfect  caudour  whieh  is  so  engaging 
a  leature  in  his  clianiet  t.     Ile  says,  ''Sneli  boolvs  jus 
Ii<'ssing's  Laucuun,  siuli  passiiges  as  tlie  <'ritieisnj  on 
Jlamltf  ill  Wilhelm  Mcixter,  HI!  me  witli  wouder  and 
desi)air."     There  is  no  limit  to  tlie  labour  he  will  nn- 
dergo  to  unearth  tljost;  pieturescjue  details  wliieh  are 
the  stage  properties  through  wliich  li  is  most  striking 
eftects  are  produced.     But  when  he  has  colleeted  his 
detuils  he  is  content.     He  does  not  sift  and  resift  evi- 
denee,  till  he  knows  exactly  how  a  case  stood  :  that 
is  (^arly]e's  method.     He  does  not  aim  at  expressing 
himself  with  the  orjginality  of  dramatie  insight.     He 
simply  arranges  his  pietnre  with  a  consnmmate  sensc 
of  efleet.     He  has  not  ealled  spirits  from  the  vasly 
»leep,  but  he  has  eonstrueted  an  imposiug  panorama, 
in  whieh  the  gi«'at  aetors  of  the  past  move  with  an 
exeellent  simulation  of  lite.     The  appeal  from  fii-st  to 
last  is  to  the  eye,  and  nothing  ean  be  more  brilliant, 
vivid,  and  effeetive  in  its  way.     The  only  thing  is,  it 
is  not  the  highest  way  ;  it  is  i)anoramie,  but  not  dra- 
matie art. 

Macaulay  has  been  compared  with  Burke,  but  there 
is  no  likeness  b«'tween  the  two  men,  save  that  whieh 
is  purely  superfieial.  Both  were  orators,  writers,  pai-- 
liamentarians,  but  there  tlu;  likene&s  ends.  Burke 
wasan  original  foree,  with  soniething  of  the  freshuess 
of  Nature  iu  him  :  the  leal  basis  of  Macaulav's  mind 


T/)HD  MACArLAY 


123 


wiw  comiiudiidjut',  liurkc  Miw  a  pruluuiul  thinkrr, 
and  ^lacaiilay  was  in  no  .si'nH(>  wliatrver  a  lliinkiT. 
JJui  k«i  waH  an  iiK(uni>ii'k>i-,  bul  a  lar  greatcr  man  :  a 
man  of  llieTitanironler,  wh«'n'a8Macaniay  has  not  Il- 
ing ol"  tlu'  Titan  in  kim.  It  is  luecistdy  wIhmi  we  innu- 
pare  Matanlay  with  a  man  like  liiuke  that  Wi>  beeome 
most  conseious  of  his  real  inferiority,  of  his  eompara- 
tive  littleness.  We  u-e  thea  that  what  Maeaulay 
lacked  wiis  tliat  i)owerful  iudividuality  which  is  in- 
separable  from  Ih»;  highest  genius.  Ile  w  ;is  not  one 
of  those  who  are  set  for  the  rising  or  fall  of  nations, 
the  potent  source  of  new  thoughtsand  ideals,  new  im- 
pulses  and  forces  tor  times  and  i)eoples.  Ile  exercised 
uothing  of  the  fjuseinatiou  of  real  greatness  over  his 
contemporaries.  They  never  speak  of  him  as  we 
speak  of  Carlyle,  or  as  Keynolds  speke  of  Johnson. 
They  all  ackuowledged  his  brilliaut  powers,  but  he 
iuspired  ueither  animosity  uordevotion,  divisiou  nor 
discipleship.  His  couversiitiou  was  typical  of  the 
man.  Sydney  Smith  complaiued  that  it  had  "no 
flashes  of  silence,"  and  Carlyle  siiid  coutemptuously, 
"  Flow  on,  thou  shining  river  ! "  It  was  a  vast  stream 
of  erudition,  good  s«'us«',  good  humour,  occasionally 
of  sententious  w  it,  Imt  it  displayed  none  of  those 
larger  human  qualities  whieh  invest  the  table-talk  of 
Johnson  and  Carl>  le  with  a  perennial  charm.  Sonu- 
how  we  are  always  t-onscious  of  au  air  of  preeocity  in 
all  Maeaulity\s  displays.  His  power  of  memory  is 
greatly  ii.  exeess  of  his  power  of  reflection,  and  this  is 
one  of  the  eomnion  vices  of  preeocity.  But  be  this  lus 
it  may,  it  is  as  a  superb  litei-ary  artist  that  Maeaulay 
must  stand  or  fall.  ^^^lat  he  did  he  did  exeelleutly, 
but  agaiii  we:  rei)eat  it  was  not  the  highest  kind  of 
work.     Nor  was  he  one  of  the  highest  kind  of  men, 


1^ 
I  fl  ,1 


^^ 


^fiÉ 


:l 


'ti 

i  i 
I  f' 


124    TIFK  .MAKKRS  OF  KVCJLISFI  PUOSK 

and  tliat  is  why  wv  tW\  it  to  Im- an  iiiiiMrnnfii'»^  fo 
iuvhulv  hJH  nann>  in  tUv  nil.jroiy  of  Hurk»',  and.lolin 
Hon,  and  l'ariyl»'.     Hi»  KiiKiish  |m>t<)(y]M'  in  liuiueor 
(Jil)lxin  ;  hiM  bitin,  Sallu«(. 

INiliaps  lin-  nH>.st  pltiwjint  fwituivof  Maciuiluy'» 
chanutiM-  was  liis  iiih.ns«.  t-ntluwisusn»  for  litemtniv. 
It  was  a  rt'ul  and  bcantifnl  «nthnNiawn,  and  it  gave  a 
nTtain  diunity  to  hi.s  thought^s,  and  is  tin-  (soum-  of 
all  that  i8  lM'st  in  his  writinK.     It  is  not  tln-cnlliusiasni 
of  a  large  inti^llectnal  lif»-,  Jn»\v«-v('r;  n-al  as  it  is,  y«-t 
it  nn>vt's  in  a   coinpaiiitivcly   ivstrictwl  ami.     Ho 
8»'i'nj8  to  have  had  no  inttj.st  in  scienie,  in  moth-iu 
pot-try,  or  in  the  so<ial  and  rtli|,Mous  problems  of  his 
day.    To  the  subth-r   infliu-nces  of  thouglit  he  wsw 
siniply  ins(-nsibl«-.     Ilt-  wa.s  inipatit-ut  of  philosophy, 
and  indiflen-nt  to  religion.     Bnt  he  loved  books  with 
au  almost  indiserimiuating  passion.     He  read  agaiu 
aud  agaiu  those  ancient  classics  whieh  most  iuterested 
him,  and  the  list  of  books  he  read  in  a  siugle  year  of 
his  Indian  life  is  siniply  lustounding.     He  vris  fond  of 
walking,  hut  he  always  walked  wilh  a  book  in  his 
haml.     In  a  walk  of  sixte<'ii  miles  he  onee  re-read  six 
books  of  Homer.     AVhen  he  eross«'s  the  Irish  (Hiannel, 
he  amnses  hinis<>lf  by  sitting  on  deck  all  night  and 
repeatiug  the  Pamiliur  Lost  from  niemory,  noting  with 
pride  that  he  eau  still  nrite  six  books,  and  those  the 
lH'st.     He  was  a  genuine  hero-woi-slii|)per.     In  his 
Italiau  tour  his  ehicf  ph-asure  is  not  found  in  the 
beauty  of  the  eouutry,  but  iu  its  historie  associations. 
It  thrills  him  with  an  exquisite  <lelight  to  tread  iu  the 
steps  of  Cicero  or  Hannibal,  aud  his  immeuse  enidi- 
tion  invests  every  place  he  sees  with  vi  vid  iuterest. 
No  oiH-  but  a  hero-worshipiMT  eould  have  writteu  the 
essay  upou  Milton.     The  uote  struek  iu  that  famous 


LORD  MACAIILAY 


vj:* 


CHNiy  w  tlu»  iH)t*'  striHk  in  all  Iiih  wiUiiiKs,  or  all  timt 
iH  noblrnt  in  thrui.  It  wun  alwayM  vvith  a  «ijjii  of  rt>- 
Ii»'f  lliat  Ih'  tuniwl  jwide  fmiii  public  Uiities  to  the 
«oinpauioiiHhip  of  Iwoks,  and  h«'  hhuI  that  he  could 
eovet  no  higher  j(»y  than  to  IM-Hhut  up  in  lh«'  wH-luHion 
of  a  gioat  library,  and  never  pjw^  a  nionieut  without 
a  book  in  his  hand.  And  this  eonft ..«ion  deelares  the 
man.  To  iuquire  information  WiiM  the  real  pansion 
of  his  life.  Jle  was  not  intereHtini  in  L}»e  .study  of  hu- 
num  nature,  and  hsul  no  love  or  aptitude  for  nuKlitu 
tion.  A  man  with  genial  intenst  in  his  fellows,  and 
in  li«V  ius  a  whoh-,  would  not  have  walked  tht;  Htnt-t» 
of  London  with  a  book  in  his  hand  ;  and  a  man  with 
any  faculty  of  meditative  thought  would  s<'anely  have 
emi>loy('d  a  long  starlit  night  on  the  Iiish  Sea  in  u 
recitatiou  of  Milton. 

Great  powers  and  gre^it  qualities  Maeanlay  ha<l,  but 
on»'  great  deficiency  is  always  felt :  he  hsus  no  senwof 
the  Infinite.  He  has  no  sense  whatever  of  the  mys- 
Uny  of  life,  of  its  eternal  euvironments,  of  what  Shel- 
ley  felt  when  he  eoueeived  that 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  nmny-colourecl  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eteriiity, 

or  of  what  Shakespeare  felt  when  he  wrote  the  great 
8olilo<iuy  of  Hamlet.  His  "foible  is  omniseienee," 
that  (onjplete  knowledge  of  the  suifacc  of  life  whieh 
supposes  that  it  hus  looked  into  "  the  very  heart  of 
the  maehine"  when  it  hius  enumerated  the  outward 
characteristies  of  human  life,  but  has  no  eorresjjond- 
iiig  intuition  of  ils  inuer  movenients.  We  look  in 
vain  in  Maeaulay  for  any  of  thos«' sudden  fliishes  of 
light  whieh  reveal  the  deep  heart  of  the  writer,  aud 
instantaneously  send  the  thoughts  of  the  reader  soar- 


V2*i    TIIK  MAK  KUS  OF  K.MJLlSir  V\H)S\: 


'I 


I 
I    ' 


'i 


iiiK  intt)  tli(>  llriiiaiiiriit  of  tli«'  Iiilinit(>.  ili;  ii«'vir  tiNkM 
Wbfiu*»'  am  I!— VVIiithiT  mn  I  noinj^t  Uv  uvwr 
nmktt)  m  iW\  thi>  Kulviiiiiity  of  the  thmiglit  tliiit  ull 
tli(>Hi>  gfiicmtiouH  whicli  iit'  picliins  hav*'  inMidcii  the 
(liiHty  n>a<l  of  dtttth,  aml  lit;  Nilciit  uiulcr  tlH>  driiiiiN 
uiul  tmnipliii}^  of  .siKcttHliiiK  agrs.  Ut-  «Um-h  not  fii-I, 
With  WonlHWoith,  tlMi|;nunUiirof  tlMmiggt-Htion  tlmt 
tbv  HUUl 

Tliat  riw»  witli  uh,  our  life'«  «tftr, 
tlath  hatt  elsetvheie  its  acttiug, 
Aud  couteth  from  afar, 

or  With  Shakespean^  the  patlioH  of  the  thought  that 
*'wo  ai«  8iu'h  Htutl'  iiH  dn'anis  mv  ina«h>  of,"  and  onr 
"little  lifo  is  rouiuhil  with  a  siwp."  Ile  dcKf*  not 
dom'  his  Jlixton/iiH  Ualfigh  chiscHl  his,  with  any  mag- 
nitiwnt  aiM)stropht'  to  "fUHjmMit,  just,  and  niighty 
death."  The  "still,  «ul  music  of  hunianity"  isa 
nuisie  he  hus  never  heard.  Tliere  is  no  eteiiial  doine 
of  heaven  arched  over  liis  history,  there  are  no  watch- 
ful  Pn*s«>npe8  tliat  look  on  us  from  other  worl<ls;  all  is 
jjross,  palpable,  eommoni)laee,  nniful  i  o.  Life  ji.isses 
bofore  us  like  a  glittering  pageant,  and  we  ai-e  eon- 
seious  only  of  its  buzz  and  tinsel.  He  is  eontent  that 
it  should  l>e  so  ;  he  aims  at  no  higher  ef!"eet.  It  is  in 
the  itnsr  ni  nvhif  of  the  theatre  lie  excels ;  he  has  no 
eve  for  the  starry  spaees  and  «h-i-p  i)rofour.d  of  Natuiv, 
whieh  allure  and  impress  us  outsi«h>  the  tluvMe  door. 
'■  he  can  make  us  clap  our  hands  lK'fore  his  scenic 

•w,  it  is  emmgh  ;  we  must  look  to  others  for  guid- 
aiice  in  the  et«'rnal  njystery  of  things,  for  interpivta- 
tion  of  the  heavenly  silences. 

We  do  not  ask  for  spirituality  in  an  historiaii,  and 
we  eau  do  without  pliilos<jphic  depth  ;  but  the  lack 


I^orU)  MACAfLAY 


127 


of  tiiiM  ^4l•llM>  ol'  llu!  Infiiiitc  uiimiNtakahly  «IwiirfN  llie 
Hiiltj»'»!,  aiiti  iiiiik(>H  tln"  iioblcHt  vtWvtn  iiiii>o.sHil»l(>.  U 
Im  likt!  tlir  l.uk  of  atiiiospluTr  in  a  paiiitiiiK— «>very- 
IhiiiK  \h  too  iij;id  in  outlin»»,  1«m»  n«'ar  and  di«linrt, 
and  Ulf  «hann  <»f  distance  in  wantin^.  Tlif  Knindciir 
of  ('arlyl»''H  Frnnh  Jirrolutioti  arisi-s  fn»ni  Hum  wvy 
qnalily,  his  intens»'  wnsilivfne-ss  lo  tlu^  m'arncsH  of 
tln'  Iniinitu.  KvfrythinK  is  .mm  aj,'ain.st  a  l>ark- 
Ki(Min<l  of  inlinily.  VVi-  mv  itinind»'d  ajjain  and 
anilin  of  llioHu  HoltMim  aby-ssis  of  <'t«Tnity  on  tho 
Itiink  of  wldtl-  men  siMut.  \Vv  stv  thf  drania  of 
iimnan  lifc  pl;  il  tuit  in  an  awfnl  cnvironnu-nt  of 
inimen«itio8  anu  «t«Mnili«'s,  and  ura  fswciuatvd  with  itn 

HhiftiiiK  fancieH  aiul  celestinl  liKhUi, 

With  all  itH  urniul  oreheMtral  HJleiiceii, 

To  keep  the  jwunes  of  the  rhythiiiic  Bouuda. 

An»I  tlnMv  18  no  gr^at  wiiUr  in  modern  literature 
wlio  Iiiis  not  had  tliis  sj-nw  of  th«'  Intinite.  It  gives 
soicninily  to  tho  fan<'i«'s  of  Dv  (^uint-ey,  as  woll  as  to 
IIh'  liish.iy  of  Cailyh' ;  it  hatli,.s  tlu'  psigvs  of  Knskin, 
and  Tennyson,  and  Hrowning,  not  less  tl-tn  tlios<' of 
Xfwnian,  Mil  li  a  n-lcslial  spirndonr.  Bnt  no  gleani 
of  tliat  light  \vhii'ii  never  was  on  s«'aor  land  illnmines 
tlie  writings  of  Mi-ninlay.  In  tlu'  ordinaiy  sense  of 
the  wo.M  he  was  not  a  worldly  num.  He  was  not 
avaiicions,  self-sei^king,  or  inuno<lestly  prond.  He 
was  sinijde  in  his  tastes,  an<l  moderate  in  his  and)i- 
tions.  Hut  if  he  was  not  a  worldly  man  in  this  ortho- 
d«.x  sense  of  the  word,  he  was  distinctiy  a  innndane 
man.  He  never  felt  whal  Hnrke  felt  when  he  sjiid, 
"  What  shadows  we  aie.  and  wh  «t  shadows  we  pnr- 
siie!"  He  never  looked  over  the  harriers  of  (he 
worid  into  that  eternal  sea  wliieh  liows  roiind  all,  and 


12S    TIIH  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PKOSE 

he  never  hejird  its  uiMlcrtoue  of  melaucholy  music. 
What  the  ileeiwst  hoaits  have  felt,  he  never  felt ; 
what  the  clearest  eyes  )iave  seeii,  he  uever  saw  ;  and 
the  problems  with  which  great  thiukers  have  wrestled 
all  their  lives  in  an  agony  that  yearned  withont  pause 
for  the  breaking  of  the  day,  never  so  mueh  as  troubled 
him  with  a  suggestion  of  their  presence.  Macaulay 
had  never  met  the  wrestliug  angel  and  prevailed. 
He  was  an  uneonscious  but  eomplete  materialist  in 
all  his  thoughts  and  ide;js;  he  wius  like  Gibbon,  "of 
the  earth  earthly." 

A  very  mundane  man,  no  doubt ;  an  eager-minded, 
strenuous  man,  with  an  honest  delight  in  life,  and  a 
pleasure  in  it«  rough  tussles  for  preeminence ;  but 
for  all  this,  a  man  who,  in  his  private  conduet,  was 
oapable  of  being  (luietly  heroie  in  a  way  which  many 
more  uuworldly  si)irits  have  often  found  it  difficultto 
emulate.  I*erhaps  we  can  aflbrd  to  barter  somc  of  the 
higlicr  qualities  of  literary  sympathy  for  the  fortitude 
and  unselfishness  which  can  endure  banishment  for 
five  years,  at  a  time  when  political  prospects  are 
brightest,  for  the  s;ike  of  putting  himself  and  his 
faniiiy  on  a  basis  of  indepciidence.  There  have  Ix^en 
maiiy  literary  artists  who  were  exquisitely  discerning 
and  synipathcfic  in  theii-  taste,  but  who  were  utlerly 
cynical  and  scUish  in  their  private  relationships ,  and 
when  we  cliodsc  between  nobility  of  conduet  and 
finish  of  intclle<'t,  we  know  which  ranks  the  higher. 
"  At  Christmas,"  he  writes  from  India,  "  I  shall  send 
home  a  tluuisjuul  or  twelve  hundred  pounds  for  my 
fat  her  and  you  all.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  comfort 
il  is  lo  me  to  know  that  T  shall  be  able  to  do  this.  It 
rcconcilcs  nie  fo  all  th(^  pains— acute  enough  some- 
timcs,  (iod  kiiows  !— of  banishment.     In  a  few  years, 


LORD  MA(  AUJ.AY  129 

if  I  live— probably  iu  k-ss  tluiu  live  years  from  the 
time  ilt  wliieh  you  ure  reudiug  this  letter— we  shall 
be  agaiu  togetlier  iu  a  eomlortable,  though  modest 
home  :  certaiu  of  a  good  fire,  a  good  joiut  of  meat, 
aul  .1  g  .i,a  -In.ss  of  wiiie  ;  without  owiug  obligations 
to  anyiwdy,  an.!  perfectly  iudiifereiit,  at  Iwust  as  far 
a&  .ur  poiuiuai  y  iuterest  is  eoucerued,  to  the  chauges 
of  ::•(_  i>c!;Hcrtl  world.     Kdy  ou  it,  my  dear  gi  ris, 
that  there  is  no  chauce  of  my  goiug  back  with  my 
heart  eooled  towards  you.     I  eame  hither  priucipally 
to  save  my  family,  and  I  am  not  likely  while  here  t.. 
forget  them."     The  letter  is  of  the  earth  earthly,  uo 
doubt,  but  there  is  surely  a  touch  of  noble  feeling  iu 
It  also.     It  was  not  Maeaulay's  way  to  wear  his  heart 
upou  his  sleeve  ;  he  was  iuelined  rather  to  stimulate 
a  bluutness  of  feeling  whieh  Miis  not  real,  and  to  eon- 
ceal  his  deepest  emotions  under  the  mask  of  worldly 
shrewduess.     But  that  those  emotions  were  there 
and  that  a  real  sensitiveuess  of  heart  was  allied  to 
his  native  shrewduess  of  mind,  no  one  can  doubt. 
Ihe  jovial  anticlpation  of  "the  good  joint  and  the 
good  glass  of  wine"  does  not  enable  us  to  forget  the 
sore  heart  of  the  exile,  nor  are  we  likely  to  overlook 
his  silent  seif  sjicrifice. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  more.  Macaulay 
was  so  thoroughly  honest,  genuine,  aud  sweet-natured 
that  It  is  With  regret  one  has  to  say  so  much  of  his 
defects.  He  was  "a  lump  of  good-uature."  It  has 
been  well  said  that  we  must  beware  of  either  praising 
or  blaming  him,  for  the  praise  becomes  blame  and  the 
blame  praise  before  mv  know  it.  Thus  if  we  say  that 
he  had  no  strong  passions,  we  must  imnuHliately  rec- 
oliect  the  depth  aud  tenderne.s.s  of  his  aflectious,  and 
his  noble  loyalty  to  such  duties  as  sjiraug  from  the 


1 1| 


Mi 


■I 


I* 


I 


n 


lao    TFIE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

allWtious.  Tlie  very  defects  which  close  to  him  llic 
doors  of  the  bigbesst  reuowu  are  the  qualities  wbieb 
ensured  biiu  bis  immeuse  aud  uudimiuisbed  popu- 
larity.  He  wrote  uot  for  people  wbo  tbiuk,  but  for 
the  mass  of  people  wbo  prefer  wbat  is  iuteresting  to 
wbat  is  profouud.  He  did  bis  work  witb  au  bouest 
deligbt  in  it,  aud  spared  uo  labour  to  make  it  as  per- 
feet  as  bis  couceptiou  of  it  iHjrmitted.  He  certaiuly 
iuveuted  a  uew  style  aud  a  uew  metbod  of  writing 
bislory,  aud  tbe  cbarui  of  botb  is  tliat  tbey  are  iufai- 
libiy  iuterestiug.  Perbaps  tbe  eonipliuieut  wbieb  lie 
most  appreciated  was  tbat  couveycd  in  au  address 
froui  some  workiug  meu,  wbo  tbaiiked  biui  for  beiug 
tlie  first  to  write  a  bislory  wbicb  tbe  commou  people 
cotdd  uudei-staud.  To  bave  done  tliis  is  to  bave  doue 
mueb,  but  to  bave  writteu  a  bistory  wbieb  is  equally 
tbe  deligbt  of  tbe  learued  aud  tbe  tultured  is  a  uuique 
aebievemeut.  Aud  be  deserved  bis  suecess ;  uo  mau 
e\  er  worked  witb  more  siugleuess  of  aim  aud  devoted- 
ness  of  purpose.  Tbe  faults  of  bis  work  are  tbe  de- 
feets  of  tbe  mau  bimself,  tbey  are  iuseparable  from 
bis  endowmeuts,  aud  are  uot  tbe  blemisbes  wbich 
come  by  iuteutiou,  or  eau  be  removed  by  determiua- 
tiou.  If  be  wjis  uot  a  great  mau,  be  was  a  man  of 
great  genius  ;  aud  a  loug  jæriod  of  time  must  elapse, 
aud  public  taste  aud  human  nature  become  much 
changed,  before  bis  work  can  pass  iuto  desuetude,  or 
bis  uame  be  forgotten. 


rx 

WALTER  SA  VAGE  LANDOR 

Bom  «'  "«'«'«YA-,  January  30,  1775.  Educated  at  Rughy  and 
Oxford.  Pubhshvd  his  poan,  Gebir,  1798.  Went  to  Spain  as  vol- 
unleer  m  the  tipanis/i  cause  ayaimt  Napoleon,  1808.  Married  Miss 
Ihudher,  1811.  \['rote his poim,  Vount  Julian,  in xnnr year  J'uh- 
lished  first  inslallment  of  Imaginary  Conirr.alions,  1831  Eanniwi- 
Uon  of  Shakespeare,  IHTA.  Ventameron,  1837.  Collect ion  of  Latin 
loems,  1847.     Died  i«  Florence,  September  17,  1864. 


I 


CLAIM  no  place  in  the  world  of  letters ;  I  am 
aiouo,  and  will  be  alone  an  loug  a.s  I  live,  and 
alter,"  wrote  Laudor  in  one  of  hi.s  lnUi  coufes- 
sions.  Equally  eharaeteristie  i.s  hi.s  proud  sayiusr  "  i 
shall  dine  late  ;  but  the  dining-rooiu  will  be  Vell 
l.ghted,  the  gue.sts  few  and  seleet."  ln  e<u;h  in.stanee 
the  i.ropiieey  is  likely  to  be  fu  [filled.  Landor  still 
speaks  to  the  few,  but  tiu^y  are  the  best  judges  of  Ut- 
gire :  he  .still  stands  alone,  but  it  is  i)ecause  there 
0  one  capable  of  disputiug  his  peculiar  pre- 
vniineuce  with  hini. 

In  mere  weight  and  mass  of  genius  Landor  .stood 
h.gli  amoug  his  coutemporari(^s,  and  in  the  tinal  form 
which  he  adopted  for  his  expression,  he  has  neither 
prototype  nor  imitator.  Carlyle  rightly  deseribed 
hun  as  an  "nnsubduable  old  Koman"  ;  Swinburne 
With  moi^.  delicate  felicity  of  epithet,  dislinguishes 
the  Greek  graee  of  manner  which  he  joiued  with 
Koman  vnility  of  thought : 

Aud  throujjh  the  trumpet  of  a  child  of  Konie 
Ran^  the  pure  music  of  the  flut«s  of  Greece 
131 


i    il 

't 


VVi    TUK  MAKKliS  OV  KNtJLISlI  PROSK 


cMsissic  graiultMir  ainl  bifiuUh,  chissic  purity  aud 
severity  ol"  fonn,  distingiiish  all  lus  best  writiug. 
Tliere  is  a  classic  digiiity  about  bis  lilc  also,  uuined, 
howevor,  by  fierce  intractability  of  toiupcr,  sudden 
and  disastrous  explosious  of  ft-eliug,  aiid  i-ntire  want 
of  judgiuent  in  all  tbe  practical  affaiis  of  life.  No 
man  wsus  ivadier  in  uttering  basty  judgnients,  or  more 
reluctaut  to  modify  tbom  wbcn  tbe  facts  were  ob- 
viously  against  bim.  U»'  bas  in  turn  described  tbe 
Frencb,  tbe  Welsb,  and  tbe  Italians  as  tbe  most  cor- 
rupt  and  wortbless  of  mankind.  Wbere  be  bated  be 
found  no  epitl  too  odioiLs  for  tbe  object  of  bis  ba- 
tred,  wbere  be  oved  no  praise  too  extreme.  Tbe 
story  of  bis  life  ..  long  bistory  of  collisions  with  aii- 
tbority,  witb  neigbboui-s,  witb  friends,  witb  eircum- 
stances,  often  as  intensely  amusing  to  tbe  onlookeras 
tbey  were  painful  to  biniself.  Tliere  is  mucb  in  bis 
life  wbieb  is  Indierous  and  astonisbing  ;  perbaps  it  is 
little  wonder  tbat  tbe  mass  of  men,  ever  more  ready 
to  gloat  over  a  frailty  tban  to  dtteet  a  virtue,  sbould 
bave  i-emembered  bis  faults  and  forgotten  bis  great- 
ness. 

Precipianey  of  jndgment  and  beat  of  temper  are 
responsible  for  all  tbe  errors  of  Landor's  life.  To  re- 
count  tbese  eri-oi-s  is  neitber  \r\se,  neoessary,  nor  gen- 
erons.  One  tbing,  bowever,  is  noticeable,  tbat  in 
every  case  tbe  ditficulties  wbieb  be  ereated  for  bim- 
s«'lf  arose  from  a  sort  of  nndiseiplined  magnaruuity 
of  nature,  a  belief  in  impraetioahle  ideals,  a  radieal 
inability  to  adapt  bimself  to  tbe  eommon  eonvictions 
of  life.  He  sinned  against  bimself  in  a  bnndred  in- 
stances,  but  against  otbers  never.  His  generosity  was 
extreme  and  incessiint.  In  bis  enormous  agrieultural 
experiments    at    Llautbony  be  sqnandered  seventy 


WALTKR  SAVACiK  LAXDOU  1S3 

thousjind  inmmlH  in  five  yea.s.  I„  Mv,  Uf,. ,,«  ,u,. 
iuuUhI  ImuM-llolulniost  iill  M.ul  ho  i,oss.vs.shI  in  fuv„ur 
ot  a  wiH>  who  had  <.,nl,itt,..v(l  hisc-xintence,  und  wh„ni 
..,•  had  twice  li-n.  FniKalHy  was  a  virtu'.  of  which 
U5  had  mncr  heurd,  counuon-senst;  a  woid  of  which 
he  did  not  know  the  ineauin«.  If  he  has  never  vet 
MUitc  conie  by  his  owu  in  liceraiy  fanie,  it  is  because 

he.sjnuewdlfuhies8audimpructicabilitycharacteriz(^ 
Ins  genius.     Tlie  Isist  thought  that  wouid  ever  oceur 
to  hun  was  what  the  publie  was  likely  to  read  ;  or  if 
sueh  a  suggestion  luid  been  u.ade  to  him,  it  is  qJite 
certaiu  that  he  would  have  instautly  ehosen  a  form  of 
wntiug  dianietrical!y  oi)i)o.sed  to  public  taste.     He 
plauued  his  literary  life  nuieh  iis  lie  pjanned  his  gigau- 
tie  .igncultural  sehenies  at  Llauthony,  without  tlie 
lejist  reference  to  tlie  practical  conditions  „f  success 
His  only  vice  was  an  indomitable  pride.     His  crown 
of  virtue  was  magnaniinity.     In  both  these  qualities 
he  was  more  pagan  ti.an  moderii,  aud  dese^rved  his 

■tie  ot  loman.  We  may  pity,  love,  admire,  judge 
l„,a-cach  IS  possible,  and  does  not  exclude  the  other 
-but  no  one  can  get  at  dose  qnurters  with  him  with- 
out perceiving  that  Landor's  nature  was  wrought 
out  ot  the  rarest  aud  purest  material,  and  that 
numerous  as  the  flaws  are,  none  of  theni  go  verv 
deep,  or  seriously  impair  the  geueral  impressiveness 
of  the  whole. 

Laudor's  lit«Tary  career  began  with  poetry,  and  to 
the  close  of  his  loug  life  he  wrote  poetry,  often  of  the 
very  highest  order.  It  has  ahvays  seemed  to  me  that 
he  poetry  of  Landor  has  beeu  quite  uujustly  ne"-- 
lected,  and  even  the  best  critics  huve  paid  far  too  lil 
tle  attention  to  it.  Of  course  he  wiis  not  a  great  poet 
111  thesense  in  which  Wordsworth  or  Shelley  is  great 


l!     ' 

i 


':?fl 


m 


134    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

aud  the  musons  of  his  inferiority  are  obvious.     Both 
Wonlsworth  aud  Shelley  had  a  message  to  deliver ; 
Liindor  had  noue.     It  was  uot  that  he  did  uot  fcel 
eaniestly  aud  eveu  violently  ou  a  variety  of  aubjttts, 
but  a  certain  uuderlyiug  coutempt  of  his  fellow  lueu 
lobbed  him  of  that  sympathy  which  made  auythiug 
like  a  cohereut  aud  vital  message  possible.     Agaiu, 
be  had  little  power  of  impreguatiug  his  poetry  with 
that  iutimate  personal  passiou  which  gives  poiguaucy 
or  sweetuess  to  the  work  of  his  great  coutemporaries. 
Ile  was  too  reticeut,  too  proud,  too  self-coutaiued  to 
uuveil  bis  beart  witb  the  fi-eedom  of  a  Byrou  or  a 
Sbelley.     Byrou  aud  Sbelloy  coulided  tbeir  closest 
secrets  to  maukiud,  aud  tbeir  poetry  is  a  long  series 
of  persoual  eoufessious.     Kothiug  happeued  to  theui, 
uo  movemeut  of  beart  or  miud,  that  bas  uot  sometbing 
correspoudiug  to  it  iu  tbeir  verse,  aud  consequeutly 
they  uever  fail  to  excite  our  syiupatbies,  aud  couipel 
our  iuterest.     Eveu  of  Wordsworlh,  a  uiau  of  nuich 
colder  temperament,  tbisistrue:  iu  all  bis  more  vital 
poetry  we  share  the  secrets  of  bis  persouality.     Landor 
permits  no  suth  iutrusion.     He  is  shy  as  a  girl  over 
the  ardoui-s  of  his  owu  beart.     He  addresses  us  from 
a  standpoiut  at  ouce  remote  aud  detacbed,  and  only 
in   rare  moments  descends  from  bis  piunacle  and 
star.ds  among  us.     Aud,  a«  compared  witb  the  great- 
est  poets— and  it  is  witb  these  only  be  deserves  to  be 
compared— he  fails  iu  executiou.     He  lacKS  the  uu- 
taltering  felicity  of  the  perfectly  developed  artistic 
sense.     A  line  or  a  passage  full  of  gravity  and  nmsic 
is  oiten  succeeded  by  halting  and  inefficient  work- 
manship,  sis  though  bis  inspiratiou  bad  suddenly  failed 
him,  or  be  had  tired  in  his  ttight.     Few  poets  have 
ever  soared  higher,  but,  stroug  as  his  wing  is,  it  soou 


WALT/:U  SAVACJE  LAXDOR  135 

dioops.  It  is  not  thut  li««  is  incapahk.  of  doing  botlor, 
bilt  lu>  i.s  Um  caielcss  to  attciupt  it,  u,  Icast  oontiii- 
iiously  ;  aml  so  it  inay  Ix^  said  tiiat  iiever  wjls  Kicat 
poctry  With  greater  fauU.-H. 

Unt,  at  its  bi'st,  Laiuloi's  i)o»'try  is  grcat  poetry, 
aiul  be  wlio  hius  uot  jiistly  estimatfd  the  poctiy  of 
Lajulor  i  -  incapable  of  forming  a  true  estiinate  of  liis 
genius.  fe  posst>ss(?s  wonderful  lucidity,  sinii)Iicity, 
aud  ("harm,  together  with  great  gravity  aud  depth  of 
feeliug,  and  a  peculiar  power  of  inteuse  imagination. 
Xothiug  more  peifect  of  ils  kind  was  ever  written 
than  the  eiglit  lines  on  Rose  Aylmrr—Uues  whieh  Lanib 
was  uever  tired  of  reciting : 

Ah  what  availa  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  diviue  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thiue. 
Kose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyea 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  nietiiories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Suph  a  poem  recalls  the  sweetuess  and  simplicity  of 
Wordswortl»'s  lines  to  Liiry  Gray,  bnt  itpossesscs  also 
a  eerlain  ehissic  ansterity  whieh  even  Wordsworth 
ran-Iy  attained.  In  another  kind  of  poetrv,  ainiing 
at  larger  and  epie  effeet,  tliere  is  little  that  snri)ass»'s 
the  ('losing  passages  of  the  poem  cal  led  Rcgencniliou. 
Landor  was  always  a  elose  student  of  Milton,  whom 
hr  honoured  as  the  greatest  of  men,  and  in  this 
poem  h«;  eomes  very  near  Milton  in  thesolemn  mareh 
of  his  blank  v<'rse.     Sueh  lines  sis  these  : 

Let  all  that  Elis  ever  sa  w,  gi  ve  way, 

All  that  Olympian  Jove  e'er  smile»!  upou  : 

The  Marathonian  colunins  never  told 


l.'?rt    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISir  PUOSE 

A  tale  more  glorions,  never  Salamis, 
Nor,  faitlifnl  in  the  centre  of  the  false, 
Platea,  nor  Antlieln,  trom  whose  nionnt 
Benignant  Ceres  ward»  the  hleascd  Laws, 
And  sees  the  Ainphictyon  diphis  weary  foot 
In  the  warni  streanilet  of  the  strnit  lielow, — 

recall  not  only  the  p(»iiip  of  Milton'8  lines,  but  aiso 
his  elassieisni.  But  imich  Jis  Laudor  adniired  Milton, 
he  was  no  copyi.st.  Ile  has  a  grave,  Hweet  eoniord 
of  his  own,  coniposed  of  the  simplest  ehords.  No 
passjige  of  his  poetry  is  better  known,  and  none  is 
more  i)erfect,  thau  his  famous  descriptiou  of  the  sea- 
shell  in  Grhir: 


Bnt  I  have  sinnons  shells  of  pearly  hue 

Withiu,  and  they  that  lustie  have  inbibed 

In  the  8nn's  iMilace-porch,  where,  wheu  unyoked 

His  chariut-wheel  stands  niidwuy  in  the  wave : 

Shake  ouc,  aud  it  awakens  ;  then  apply 

Its  polisht  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 

And  it  remenibers  its  august  abodes, 

Aud  niuriuurs  as  tlie  ocean  niurninrs  there. 


I     I 


Byron  took  the  same  image,  and  spoiled  it ;  Words- 
W(»rth  eertainly  did  not  improve  it  when  he  turned  it 
to  moral  uses  in  the  EjTnr>i'->n.  These  are,  of  conrse, 
hut  randoni  sjimples  of  Laiidor'8  poetry,  tåken  from 
an  opnlent  and  varions  storelionse.  No  single  poem 
can  rightly  ilhistrate  his  power  ;  yet,  if  oiie  needs 
nnist  be  cliosen  which  displays  his  rarest  qualities  in 
their  most  perfect  combination,  there  is  none  so 
distinctive  as  the  follovving  brief  idyll  from  his 
HcUeuicH.  Notiee  how  giave  and  simple  is  the 
movctnent  of  the  vei-se,  how  the  full  tragedy  is 
excjuisitely    indieated    rather  tlian  described  (a  con- 


WALTER  SAVAOK  LAXDOR  137 

Htaiit  Imbit  With  Lamlor  in  ull  his  dranmtic  writin^r) 
the  abinptiiesN  of  the  clos»»,  witli  tho  biief  pliij.s»' 
*'*twas  ih.l  hers,"  which  f*'lis  everythi.iK,  -.viu  Ifuvcs 
an  nH'fla«eai)l(!  inipiession  of  a  nionining  too  piofoiuiU 
for  woids.     It  is  the  husbaud  who  spealcN : 

"  Artemidora  !    Goda  invisible, 
While  thou  art  lyiug  faint  aloug  the  couch, 
Have  tied  tbe  sandal  to  tliy  slender  feet 
And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  couvey 
Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivera  flow. 
Kefreshing  shades  will  waft  thy  weariueas 
Away,  and  voices  like  thine  own  come  uigh, 
Soliciting,  nor  vainly,  thy  enibrace." 

Artemidora  8igh'd,  and  would  have  prest 
The  baud  now  pressing  hers,  but  was  too  weak. 
Iris  stootl  over  ber  dark  hair  unseen 
While  thus  Elpenor  spake.     He  lookt  into 
Eyes  that  bad  given  light  and  life  erewbile 
To  those  abc  ve  them,  thoae  now  dim  with  teara 
And  watclifulness,     Again  he  spake  of  joy 
Eternal.     At  that  wonl,  that  sad  word,  joy, 
Faithful  and  fond  her  bosom  heaved  onee  more- 
Her  head  fell  back:  and  now  a  loud  deep  sob 
Swell'd  through  the  darkened  chamber;  'twas 
uot  bers. 

What  can  be  more  perfect  thau  thisf  What  more 
tei,  lor?  lufelicitoiis  as  Landor'H  own  iloniestie 
lite  was,  yet  no  one  has  spoken  of  love  with  sueh 
comlensed  piission,  no  one  ha^  deseribed  its  inmost 
workings  With  a  touch  so  su-  •  and  subtle.  To  hini 
we  owe  many  an  apophtlu-m  on  love-such,  f,.r 
instance,  as  this:  "The  happicst  of  pillows  is  not 
That  which  Love  first  presses,  it  is  that  which  Death 
has  frowncMl  on  an«l  psissed  over."  Landor's  tender- 
ness  IS  the  rare  tenderness  of  the  strong  man,  thau 


Il 


I.IS     THE  MAKKI{S  OF  KMJLISH  PliOSK 

whifh  noiio  is  iihmc  iiiovin^',  aiul  in  this  imm'iii  \v«' 
liav»'  ils  most  exquisih'  «'xpnvssion.  Hm-li  u  lucid 
p'in  of  iMM-try  oiikIiI  lo  hr  Hufrn'i«Mit  to  roiiviiic,. 
i'V«'ii  tiu'  mast  WTnticul  tliat  iu  poiiit  of  «juality 
IjJUKlor's  lH»st  iMMtry  is  woithy  to  be  r.uiked  with 
th(!  gifsitcst  oltlu'  iiiiiett-cnth  tentury. 

It  W!us  not  ",ntil  Lanilor  hud  <'onje  to  the  confincs 
of  niid-life  that  he  linally  adopted  thefoi  in  of  liteiaiy 
fxpressiou  best  8uit4'd  to  his  genius.     At  foity  six 
mueh  of  his  life  had  been  futile  and  dis;ippointing. 
Admimble  as   his  i)oetry   wits,   y,.t  it  was  obvious 
tliat  it  would  never  be  popuhir.     (Jreat  as  were  liis 
personal  gifts  aud  qualities,  it  was  tMiually  (.bvious 
that    they    were    eounterbalaneed    by    serious    and 
irritating  defeets.     He   had   behaved  alternately  as 
a  seho.)lboy   and   a  ssige.     His  love  of  combat  had 
led    hini    into    indiscretioiis    which    had    seriously 
alienateil    those    who   Mere  most  ready  to   honour 
hin;.     He  had  revengod  faneied  slights  hy  feroeions 
h*mi;'.ons.     He   had    run  thiongh  his  fortune,    was 
embarrassed  in  circnmstanees,  and  was  an  exile  in 
Pisji.      Olympian   niethods  of  eonduet  suit  ill  with 
sedate  English  eonventions,  as  he  had  diseovered  to 
his   cost.     Through   all   this  turmoil— Lunpoons  on 
fools,     law-suits    with    ueighlmui-s,    eollisions    with 
authorities,   voluntwr  soldiery  in  Spaiu,  and  what 
not— the  main  element  of  Landor's  life,  however,  had 
suflered   no  ehaiige :   he  had   never  eeased   to  be  a 
scholar.     The   muge  of  his  reading,  always  extra- 
ordinary,    had    witlened    with    the    steady    growth 
of   his    mind.     Tliere    was  seareely  a  grcat  wiiter 
of    antiquity    with    whom    he  was    not    intimately 
acquainted,   nor  a  great  historical  persoiiage  of  aiiy 
period,  th»;  motives  of  who.»-  eomluct  and  the  natur'.; 


WALTKIl  SAVA(ii:  LANIK>U 


139 


of  whose  surt  ion  Ini  had  not  thurouKlily  Hillwl.  (ijg. 
tory  was  lor  liim  tiu?  story  of  jjirut  men  at  work. 
His  tcuiiMirameut  wius  tlu;  t(>nii)t'raiuent  ofthehcro- 
woishijiper.  Ho  (ells  iw  tliat  the  great  tigurns  of 
iie  pitst  uflecc^il  his  sympalliics,  tis  though  he  had 
knowu  them  iutiuiately.  They  were  the  fricnds  of 
his  solitude,  aud  aluiost  the  ouly  frieuds  he  had. 
In  his  long  country  walks,  and  iu  bis  uights  of 
study,  lie  fell  into  the  way  of  holding  couversatious 
with  them  aa  if  they  were  real ;  he  found  a  keen  joy 
in  drumatizing  some  well-known  act  of  their  lives, 
some  tragic  or  happy  er  isis  in  their  careers.  His 
published  drama*»  nlK)unding  as  they  did  iu  line 
passjiges,  uevertheless  laektnl  that  true  creativo 
touch  which  gives  to  figurea  of  the  imaginatiou  a 
locjil  habitat  ion  and  a  name.  But  iu  past  history 
there  were  crowds  of  figures  ready  to  his  haud  : 
why  not  dramatize  these?  Twenty  years  earlier  he 
had  sketched  a  dialogue  betweeu  Burke  aud  Gren- 
ville,  and  his  miud  now  returued  to  this  novel  form 
of  compositiou.  He  left  Pissi  in  1821,  moving  to 
Florence,  where  for  the  next  live  yeai-s  he  resided 
in  the  Medici  Palace,  and  later  on  at  the  Villa 
('iLstiglione.  No  sooner  had  he  s.3ttled  in  Florem-e 
thai  this  idea  of  dramatic  dialogues  with  the  great 
pei-sonages  of  the  piist  took  eutire  possession  of  his 
mind,  and  the  result  wsis  the  InuujiMwy  ConverHutkntH, 
which  are  the  fluest  fruit  of  his  genius,  and  his 
euduring  monument. 

It  would  be  quite  vaiu  to  introduce  these  great 
pieces  of  literature  to  those  who  have  neither  the 
aptit')!i-s  nor  the  instincts  of  eulture.  They  are 
al)ove  all  things  the  work  of  a  scholar,  aud  Laudor 
neither  expectitl  noi*  desired  that  they  should  apjieal 


140    THE  MAKKRS  OF  KXCH.ISH  I»K08K 


il 

'f 


to  llu»  gmit  iiiiiHH  o(  n'iMh'rs.     This  in,  of  courtM',  a 
wriouH  tlis(niiilitli'iitioii.     Mvn  of  u  gi-niiw  tw  jjnaf. 
a«,  or  «mUrr  tliaii  l^imlor'.H,  ImviMoutiivcil  to  writo 
ill  wich  H  way  m  to  iiitfrmt  all  chuiw^s  of  n'a«U'rM. 
That  iMH-iilijir  briMulth  of  toutli  whieli  (liKtingui8lu'rt 
the  }?reut«'st  uuwt*'i-8  of  litemtuit?  wjus  uot  Lamlor'a 
ut  any  time,  and  he  was  luuch  too  proud  aud  nelf- 
æntaiued  to  coiiMider  for  au  iustant  what  would  Ihj 
likely  to  prove  popular  with  the  public.     He  wrote 
to  pleswe  himself,  aud  this  i»  the  source  of  both  his 
streugth    aud    his  weakucss.     Shakespe  .re  himself 
had  uo  more  vivid  iusight  iuto  the  play  of  huuuiu 
motive  aud  the  coujplicated  issues  of  human  piussiou, 
but  Shak«'8[U'ait!  was  forccd  by  the  traditions  of  the 
stage  to  expivss  luniself  iu  popular  forms.     If  we 
cjiu  couceive  of  Shakcsjware  as  a  solitary  scholar, 
free  from  all  exigeucy  of  popular  appeal  as  a  mcaus 
of  earuiug  mouey,  writiug  iu  his  closet  simply  to 
please  himself,  we  may  couceive  him  writiug  dra- 
matic  dialogues  after  Laudor'8  fsushiou.     Nor  is  it  iu 
the  lejjst  exaggerated  praisi^  to  sjiy  that  it  is  hard  to 
thiuk  of  any  one  else  who  could  have  rivalled  il  i 
best  of  these    Tmaginary   ConverxafionH.     But   fortu- 
uateiy  for  us  Shakespeare  wsus  forced  to  please  othera 
oa  well  JUS  himself.     Ile  seleeted  such  stories  as  those 
of  Antony  aud  Cleopatra,  Cæsar  aud  lirutus,  Othello 
aud  Desdemoua,  as  much  from  a  seuse  of  their  popu- 
lar siguiticauee  as  of  their  philosophic  importunce. 
Lantlor  seleets  his  themes  without  the  leiust  regard  to 
popular  siguificauce.     Heuce  oue  cauuot  but  feel  that 
hv  is  at  a  tlisidvautage.     The  writer,  uot  less  thau 
the  actor,  is  oue  who  lives  to  please,  and  must  please 
to  live.     Aud  yet   it    must   1h'  reuiembered  that  it 
ueeds  but  a  verj  little  accommodatiou  ou  our  part  to 


WAF.TKU  8AVA(iK  I.AMK)lt 


lil 


Tiiiinlor's  poiiit  of  vww  to  fliul  in  lins*'  inatcliltMH 
«liiiloKiH>H  ciii«>  of  tho  richoHt  iiiherihiiircN  «»f  tlu;  iiiiiiiiiit 
luiiiU.  TIh;  moro  cultiin'»!  a  mau  is,  \hv.  luorti  w  ill  lie 
Hpi)n'<'iate  thfiii ;  hut,  alter  all,  it  i»  only  the  ahso- 
lutfly  uuculturtHl  who  will  take  no  inttuvst  in  them. 
(tiantcHl  that  we  know  who  hJH  jiertjouagt-s  are,  that 
M«>  have  8ome  elenientary  knowledge  of  the  part  they 
playe<l  iu  life,  aud  we  at  onco  calth  the  spirit  of  tho 
dialogue.  The  caso  is  almost  panillel  with  that  of 
<'arlyle'8  French  Jievolution:  somo  preliniinary 
knowledge  is  dcinanded  of  us  sinii)ly  1)ecause  niuch 
is  tåken  for  grantcd.  In  each  iustaueo  it  ueeds  sonio 
rJTort  to  master  the  methcxl  of  tlie  writer,  but  w  hen 
onco  the  effort  is  made,  the  reward  is  out  of  all  pro- 
))ortion  to  the  exertion. 

The  (piulily  whieh  strikes  one  most  in  thcse 
JitKiffinari/  Conversuflons  is  tho  enormous  variety  of 
Ijuidor's  power.  They  range  through  the  whole 
milm  of  human  history,  aud  there  is  no  part  of  Ihat 
history  which  he  hiis  not  thorouglily  comprehcuded. 
Evrrywhero  there  is  udefpTate  knowledge  and  often 
profouud  scholarship;  everywhere  there  is  also 
stieuuous  thinkiug,  and  a  marvcllous  energy  of 
«t)n('eption  and  expression.  It  must  not  ha  sup- 
posed,  however,  that  Landor  ever  aimed  at  exact 
history.  He  once  sjiid  that  he  nsually  had  one 
history  which  he  rcad,  aud  auother  which  he  iu- 
veuted.  His  method  is  essentially  dramatic.  Ho 
wius  not  concerued  with  the  actual  things  which  his 
pcrsonages  are  reported  to  have  said,  but  with  the 
things  which  they  might  be  imagined  sis  sayiug.  In 
al!  the  mort»  than  two  huudred  dialogues  of  Ljuulor, 
it  is  difficult  to  recall  au  iustance  in  which  hv  puts 
iiito    the    mouth    of  the    speaker  auything  which 


% 


142    THE  MAKEllS  OF  ENGLISH  PUOSE 


history  i-eporls  him  as  saying.     He  even  took  vnvc 
never  to  eonsult  history  wben  he  had.once  begnn 
in  write  upon  some  historie  pcrsonage.     His iuimense 
reading  and  exact  scholarship  enabled  hinx  to  dis- 
pense    with    sueh    aids    to    knowledge.     Before  he 
wrote,  he  hild  arrived  at  a  fundamental  conccption  of 
the  eharacter  of  his  protagonist;  he  then  let  him 
think  and  speak  in  tiie  way  in  which  he  might  be 
snpposed  to  have  thought  and  speken  in  the  actual 
crisis    depicted.     An     excellent    example   of   this 
method    is    the    conversjition    between    Essex    and 
Si)euser.     There  is  no  reeord  of  any  interview  be- 
tween Essex  aud  Spcnser,  whon  the  latter  fled  from 
Ireland    after    the    burning  of   his  house  and  the 
dcstruction  of  his  proi)oity  ;  but  it  is  likely  enough, 
and  indeed  certain,  tliat  sonie  such  interview  did 
occur.     Ljindor  blings  the  two  men  face  to  face  in 
a  scene  that  Shakespeare  would  not  have  disowned. 
Ry  a  varioty    of  exquisite    dnimatic    touches  the 
scene    grows  in   poignancy,   until    at    last  Spenser 
breaks  fordi  in  nncontroUable  agonj,  and  horrifies 
Essex  with  the  news  that  not  only  his  house,  bnt 
his  child  is  burncd.     The  inipression   made  upon 
the    mind  is  one  of   absolnte  truth,  which  is  the 
highcst  excellence  of  dramatic  art.     Cæsar  did  not 
make   the    speeches  which    Shakespeare  pnts  into 
his  lips,  but  he  might  have  made  them.     They  are 
jnstified    by  his    eharacter,   and   tliat  is  the  main 
thing.     So  with  Laudor:  Pericles,  Sophocles,  Cicero, 
Cecil,  Elizabeth,  I\rilton,  Marvel— all  hold  his  brief 
slage    in    turn,    but    each   is  distinctly   individual, 
each  speaks  in  his  own  accent,  each  says  the  things 
which    from   on  r   knowledge  of  history  he  may  be 
suppos«><l  as  saying,   i  f  over  Pericles  discussed  art 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LAXDOR    U3 

With  S(>1)Ikm'Ii'.s  under  tho  shadow  of  tho  Acropolis, 
or  miUm  (liscussed  tnigtnly  with  Maivel  in  the  scaut 
soclusion  of  Bunhill  Fields. 

The  Iimujhumj  Convnsatiom  do  uof,  however,  sill 
range  themselves  under  the  phiin  cutegory  of' the 
dKimatie.    Sonie  are  philosophic,  some  are  critical, 
though  even  in  these  the  dramatic  instinct  is  always 
present.     One  of  the  most  terrible  of  all  the  dramatic 
pieces  is  Landor's  dialogue  between  Peter  the  Great 
and  his  son  Alexis.     lu  reading  this  dialogue  one  eau 
well  believe  that  Laudor  often  wrote  in  a  passion  of 
tears   aud  freuzy.     The  timid,  geutle,  kiudly  sou, 
eondemned  lo  death  by  his  owu  fjither,  aud  sayiug— 
"My  futher  truly  ssiys  I  am  not  courageous  ;  but  the 
death  (hat  leads  me  to  my  (iod  shall  never  terrify 
me,"  touchas  a  nire  height  of  uobility  ;  the  brutality 
of  Peter,  shaking  olf  the  entire  remembrance  of  the 
scene  the  moment  it  is  over,  and  calling  loudly  for 
brandy,  bacon,  aud  some  pickled  sturgeon,  aud  some 
kront  aud  caviare,  aud  good  strong  cheese,  is  ren- 
deretl  with  a  sjivage  iuteusity  almost  peculiar  to  the 
lesser  Elizabethan  dramatists,  a  Marlowe,  a  Webster, 
or  a  Ford.     Out;  can  ouly  marvel,  in  the  preseuce  of 
work  so  great  as  tliis,  what  the  rcaders  of  England 
have  beeu  about  for  the  last  fifty  yeai-s  that  they  have 
paid  so  httle  attentiou  to  it.     But  iu  another  mood, 
the  purely  critical,  Laudor  is  almost  as  impressive. 
Here,  of  course,  personal  likes  aud   dislikes  come 
nito  play,  and  Laudor  was  not  the  man  to  conceal 
them  ;  but  his  criticisra  is  never  less  thau  acute  and 
lumiuous.     Nothing  tiner  in  this  wiiy  is  to  be  found 
thau  the  convci-sation  between  Petr.iicaaud  Boccaccio 
Oi'  I)aute's  Paulo  (iiid  Framrnca.     The  whole  story  of 
the  uuhappy   lovei-s  is  told   iu  six  lines,  but,  says 


144    THE  MAKEllS  UF  ENGLISH  PUOSE 


'!«     I 


'li 


!      i 


I^aiulor,  ''  Wbat  a  sweet  iispiration  iu  each  cæsura  of 
the  verse !  tbree  love-sighs  tixfd  and  iucorporate. 
Theu  when  slie  bath  said, 

'  La  bocca  lui  bacid  tutto  tremante, ' 

she  stops :  she  would  avert  the  eyes  of  Dånte  from 
ber ;  be  looks  for  the  sequel :  she  thiuks  he  looks 
severely ;  she  says, 

'  Galeotto  is  the  name  of  the  book,' 

faucyiug  by  tbis  timorous  little  flight  she  has  drawn 
hiiu  far  euougb  from  the  nest  of  her  young  loves. 

'  Galeotto  is  tbe  uame  of  the  book.' 
'  What  matters  that  ?  ' 
'  And  of  the  writer? ' 
'Orthateither.' 

At  last  she  disarms  hiui :  but  bow  t 

'  That  day  we  read  no  more.' 

"Such  a  depth  of  intuitive  judgment,  such  a  deli- 
cacy  of  perception,  exists  not  in  any  other  work  of 
human  genius :  and  from  an  author  who,  on  almost 
all  oceasious,  in  tbis  part  of  his  work,  betrays  a 
deplorable  want  of  it." 

Landor'8  opinion  of  Dånte  was  not  high,  and  he 
even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  Inferno  was  the 
most  immoral  and  impious  book  that  was  ever  writ- 
teu  ;  but  the  most  admiring  critic  of  Dånte  may  rest 
siitisfied  with  such  a  piece  of  eriticism  as  tbis.  Streng 
and  even  violent  as  Landor  often  was  in  antipathy 
aud  opinion,  be  never  failed  to  see  the  excellency  of 
really  tine  work.  A  tine  strenuous  sincerity  breathes 
throughout  bis  work  of  tbis  kiud,  which  is  full  of 


WALTER  SA  VAGE  LANDOR    145 

iuvigouration ;  and  in  this  particular  criticism  we 
may  justly  ascribe  to  him  the  imrits  he  ascribed  to 
J>aute,  great  "depth  of  intuitive  judgment"  and 
"delicacy  of  perception." 

Another  kiud  of  writing  in  which  Landor  excelled 
may  be  best  described  as  "fanta.sy."     Perhaps  the 
uoblest  specimens  of  this  work  aie  the  Dream  0/ 
Boccaccio  and  the  Bream  of  Petrarca.    Eaeh  is  dis- 
tmguished  by  peeuliar  delicacy  of  sentimeut,  beauty 
ot  cadeuce,  and  grace  of  imaginatiou.    They  iUustrate 
aiso  in  a  very  striking  manner  the  thorough  paganism 
ot  Landor'8  mind.     His  theme  is  love  aud  death  •  it 
IS  treat«d  after  the  fashion  of  the  grcatest  of  autique 
poets ;  and  here,  if  anywhere,  we  most  distinctly  hear 
the  music  of  "the  flutes  of  Greece."    Surely  Death 
was  never  described  with  m  .e  solemn  pregnancy  of 
phrase,  with  more  beauty  and  serenity  too,  thau  in 
this  passage:   ''I  cannot  tell  how  I  knew  him,  but 
I  knew  him  to  be  t^e  genius  of  Death.    Bmithless 
as  I  wa^  at  beholding  him,  I  soon  became  famil.ar 
With  his  features.    First  they  seemed  only  calm- 
presently  they  became   contemplative,   and   lastly,' 
beautiful ;  those  of  the  Graces  themselves  are  les^ 
regular,    less    harmouious,    less    composed.     I^ve 
glanced  at  him  uusteadily,  with  a  countenanee  in 
which  there  was  somewhat  of  anxiety,  somewhat  of 
disdain,  and  cried,'Go  away!    Goaway!    Nothing 
that  thou  touchest  lives.' 

"  'Say  mther,  child,'  replied  the  advancing  form, 
aud  advancing  grew  loftier  and  statelier,  'say  rather 
that  nothing  of  beautiful  or  glorious  lives  its  owu 
true  Iife  until  my  wiug  has  passed  over  it.'"  In  the 
Dream  of  Boccaccio  the  allegoiy  is  of  equal  loveli- 
noss,  aud  the  imagery  is  equally  grave  and  solemn, 


i' 


'^':f 


\ij 


i. 


"  I 


146    THE  iMAKKKS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

bilt  theie  i8  a  wuniier  glow.  VVhen  was  the  chariu 
and  spirit  of  Ituliau  scenery  so  admirably  reudei-ed 
aud  iuiparted  as  in  this  bri«'f  passage  : 

"I  dreamed  ;  aud  suddeuiy  spraug  forth  before  ine 
many  groves  aud  palaces  and  gardens,  and  their 
statues  and. their  avenue»,  aud  their  labyriuths  of 
ahiteruns  aud  bay,  and  aicoves  of  citron,  aud  watth- 
ful  loopholes  iu  the  retirements  of  impeuetrable 
pomegranates.  Farther  off,  just  below  where  the 
fountain  slipped  away  from  its  marble  hall  aud  guard- 
iau  gods,  arose,  from  their  beds  of  moss  aud  drosera 
and  darkest  grass,  the  sisterhood  of  oleanders,  fond 
of  tantalizing  with  their  bosomed  flowera  aud  their 
moist  aud  poutiug  blossoms  the  little  shy  rivulet, 
aud  of  coveriug  its  face  with  all  the  colours  of  the 
dawu.  My  dream  expanded  aud  moved  forward.  I 
trod  again  the  dust  of  Posilippo,  soft  as  the  fejithers 
iu  the  wings  of  Sleep." 

But  quotation  does  little  to  help  us  iu  understaud- 
ing  the  beauty  of  such  works  as  this.  One  striking 
peculiarity  of  Lai'dor's  style  at  all  times  is  that  it 
seldom  yields  the  full  secret  of  it**  charm  at  a  first 
reading.  There  is  porfect  ease  and  lucidity  iu  all  his 
prose,  but  also  a  sensc  of  impeuetrable  depth.  Aud 
nowhere  are  these  characteristics  so  fully  felt  as  iu 
those  passages  of  his  writiugs  where  he  iudulges  in 
allegory— the  finest  passages  in  all  his  writiugs,  and 
unequalled  by  auj^hing  else  of  the  sswue  kind  in  the 
whole  realm  of  Euglish  literature. 

**  He  who  is  within  two  pacÆs  of  the  niiietieth  year 
may  sit  down  aud  make  no  exciises,"  wrote  Landor. 
"  rie  must  be  unpopular,  he  never  tried  to  Iw  much 
otlierwist; ;  he  never  couteuded  with  a  contempor.iry, 
but  walked  aloue  on  the  faresisteru  uplands,  uieditat- 


WALTKIl  SAVACJE  J.AM)OR  147 

ing  aud  lememboring."     In  this  conffssion,  alniost 
the  l.'mt  of  mauy  such,  Ljindor  docs  much  to  ant  ici - 
pate  the  judgment  of  posterity.     He  wa«  by  nature 
solitary,  aud  spent  his  life  in  meditating  and  remem- 
beriug.    He  wjis  by  uature  impatient  of  the  modem 
world,  and  took  refuge  iu  an  older  world.     For  these 
reasous,  as  lie  well  knew,  he  could  never  be  popular. 
But  on  a  certain  class  of  mind  Landor  will  always 
exercise  an  undeuiable  fa«ci  nation,  aud  even  those 
least  amenable  to  his  (iharm  can  scarcely  regard  his 
Imagimry  Conversntions  with  anything  but  reverence 
as  one  of  the  most  wouderful  achievements  of  the 
human  iutellect.    The  dialogue  is  in  itself  a  some- 
what  repellent  and  cumbrous  liter.uy  form,  and  occa- 
sionally  even  Landor  succumbs  beneath  its  heaviness, 
and  drifts  away  i  uto  tedious  disquisitiou.     But  for 
the  most  part  he  puts  so  much  movement,  so  much 
intensity  aud  fire  i  uto  his  dialogues,  that  they  are 
quite  as  easily  rcad  tjs  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare. 
And  iu  the  best  of  them  what  moderation  and  com- 
posure  breathe,  what  clear  serenity  of  intellectual 
view,  what  a  spirit  of  force  and  beauty :  what  a 
closi^ly-packed  wisdom  is  there,  and  what  dauntless 
energy  of  thought.     A  great  thinker,  in  the  scnse  of  a 
systematic  tliinker,  Landor  was  not,  but  few  writers 
have  ever  uttered  so  mauy  noble  thoughts  upou  so 
mauy  themes.     And  thoy  are  often  clothed  in  a  sort 
of  spleudour,  which  is  so  peculiarly  his  owu,  that  it 
can  only  be  called  Landorian.     Pregnant  epigram, 
massive  slrength,  vivid  imagination  characterize  all 
his   best  work.     His   sentences,    ofttju   abrupt,    are 
always  clear  and   decisive;   and  when   he  chooses, 
they  rise  by  e;usy  stagfs  into  pomp  and  stateliness, 
into  cxquisite  and   hauuting  cadeuces,   iuto  a   full 


i 


l7 


148    THR  MAKEIIS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

harmonious  roll,  as  of  a  jjieat  organ.  If  he  spoke  of 
his  work  with  a  superb  self-coufidence,  he  was  justi- 
fled  in  doing  so.  He  presents  almost  a  solitary  in- 
stance  of  a  man's  own  judgment  of  his  work  being 
more  accurate  and  just  than  the  judgment  of  his 
wisest  coutemporaries.  Some  day,  perhaps,  unless 
the  sense  of  what  is  truly  great  in  literature  wholly 
declines  among  his  countrymen,  Landor'8  claim  to 
farne  will  be  fully  met ;  even  uow,  those  who  know 
most  about  the  matter  will  cheerfully  indorse  his 
proud  challeuge:  "What  I  write  is  not  written  on 
slate,  and  no  finger,  not  of  Time  himælf,  who  dips  it 
in  the  clouds  of  years,  can  efface  it." 


>:  il 


f ; 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

Bom  in  JUancheatcr,  Auguat  15,  1785.  Confemom  of  an  Opium- 
eatir  appeared  in  the  London  Magazine,  1821.  Settkd  in  Edinburgh 
18"J8.  Contributed  to  Blackwood'»,  llit  Quarterly  Jieciew,  Tait's 
Mugazine,  Hogg'a  Inatructor.  Publiahed  The  Logic  of  Politiial 
Economy,  1844.  Died  in  Edinburgh,  December  8,  1859.  Collected 
edition  of  hia  writinga,  edited  by  David  Maaaon,  in  14  vola  Pub- 
liahed by  A.  d-  C.  Black,  1893. 

THE  farne  of  De  Quincey  rests  upou  oue  huu- 
dred  aud  fifty  magazine  articles.  Late  iu 
life  he  meditated  a  uew  Eistory  of  England, 
in  twelve  volumes,  but  this,  like  mauy  other  projects 
of  his,  came  to  uothiug.  It  was  not  that  he  was  in- 
cap  i  )le  of  industry,  for  a  more  prolific  writer  never 
lived,  but  that  his  mind  lacked  the  cousecutive  pur- 
pose and  aim  which  is  necessary  for  literary  tasks  of 
magnitude.  The  circumstances  of  his  life  were  also 
against  him.  Almost  all  that  he  wrote  was  produced 
under  dire  pressure,  and  it  can  scarcely  be  expected 
that  his  work  should  be  free  from  the  haste  aud  ovei- 
emphasis  which  are  the  common  vices  of  the  maga- 
zine article.  In  ordinary  circumstances  such  work 
would  be  ephemeral ;  in  De  Quincey's  case  the  faults 
of  his  writing  are  forgotten  in  the  contemplation  of  a 
style  so  eloquent,  an  invention  so  rich,  an  imagiua- 
tion  so  intense,  that  none  can  doubt  his  right  to  be 
called  one  of  the  gi-eatest  masters  of  English  which 
the  Century  has  produced. 
It  is  With  a  curious  mixtui-e  of  pity,  wonder,  aud 

149 


15(»    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLlSii  PROSE 

aflRrtiou  that  the  rfader  will  rogard  De  Qui'UH'y  as 
lie  18  reveakfl  in  his  writiuRs  and  the  story  of  his  lifc 
Never  wjis  man  so  incurably  waywaixl,  or  so  eutii-ely 
heipless  in  the  worldly  maujigemeut  of  his  affuirs. 
A  plaiu  record  of  his  habits  would  appear  too  whim- 
sical  and  fautastic  for  the  broadest  farce.     For  no 
reasou  whatever  he  sluuk  fuitively  from  lodgiug  to 
lodgiug,  as  though  he  were  a  huuted  crimiual.     He 
believed  himself  to  be  in  the  direst  poverty,  and 
weut  from  frieud  to  friend  humbly  soliciting  the  loau 
of  seveu-aud-sixpeuce,  when  he  had  iu  his  pocket  a 
bauker'8  dn  ft  for  fifty  pounds,  which  he  did  not 
know  how  to  con  vert  i  uto  cash.     Beggars,  loafers, 
and  wastrels  of  every  descriptiou  fonud  in  him  au 
easy  pi-ey.     Lotlging-house  keei)er8  stole  his  papers, 
aud  sold  them  back  to  him  at  an  txorbitaut  niusom  ; 
they  made  him  believe  himself  culpable  of  faults 
which  he  had  never  even   imagined;   when  every 
other  method  of  fraud  failed,  they  iuveuted  a  doath 
iu  the  family,  aud  extorted  supposititious  fuuei-al 
expeuses  from  him.     In  the    'ivs  wheu  his  fåme 
was  most  brilliaut  iu  Edinburgu  s  -ciety,  he  lived  iu 
obst^urity,  and  looked  like  a  beggar.     His  most  inti- 
mate  fiieuds  never  kuew  where  to  find  him.     Wheu 
he  had  completely  filled  the  room  in  which  he  hap- 
peued  to  be  living  with  au  illiuiifcible  coufusiou  of 
papers— "Snowed  himself  up,"  as  he  called  it— his 
practice  was  to  disappear,  aud  bogiu  the  same  proc- 
ess  somewhei-e  else.     The  ouly  way  to  get  him  to 
a  diuuer-party  was  to  send  an  able-bodied  mau  to 
tind  him  aud  bring  him  by  force.     Occasioually  he 
revenged  himself  by  making  a  stay  of  several  weeks, 
so  that  the  difficulty  of  getting  him  into  a  frieud'8 
house  was  forgotteu  iu  the  more  appalliug  difficulty 


A 


I  i 


THOMAS  DK  QriXCEY 


IM 


of  how  to  get  biiu  out  agaiii.  At  oiie  time  he  took 
KUHtusiry  iu  Holyroo*!,  iHjIieviug  hiiuself  iu  instiiui 
p«>ril  of  arrest  for  debt ;  nu  u  matter  of  fsu-t,  his  debts 
were  iiuonsiUerable,  aud  large  sums  were  due  to  him, 
wliiih  he  had  either  received  aud  mislaid,  or  had 
never  appliw'  for.  He  hail  no  idea  whatever  of  the 
valu(?  of  iiis  owu  work.  Wheu  he  is  over  sixty,  with 
aii  «-slablished  reputation,  he  goes  to  editorial  aud 
publishing  offiees,  meekly  hawkiug  his  articles,  an 
though  he  were  au  emuloua  amateur.  Thus,  with  a 
g<'uius  of  the  rarest  ordt  r,  a  secure  ivputatiou,  aud  a 
ready  uiarket  for  his  work,  De  Quiucey  reproduced 
th«'  traditions,  and  lived  after  the  fjishiou,  of  the 
most  obscure  Grub  Street  hack  of  Johnson' sday,  and 
for  no  appareut  reasou  except  that  this  was  the  sort 
of  life  which  he  pi*eferred. 

For  much  of  this  extraordiuary  eccentricity  of 
habit  no  doubt  opium  was  rcsponsible.  It  is  now 
certaiu  that  he  suffei-ed  from  g}U5tro<lynia,  an  obscure 
form  of  iuterual  iutiammatiou,  which  produces  the 
acutest  physical  misery.  For  tliis  mahidy  he  fouud 
opium  a  specitic.  Solid  food  of  auy  kind  wjis  abhor- 
reut  to  him,  aud  could  ouly  be  takeu  in  the  smallest 
quantities.  Opium  gave  him  iustant  relief ;  aud,  as 
he  soon  found,  had  a  remarkable  effeet  upon  the 
mind.  The  sordid  realitics  of  existeuce  dissolved 
into  rose-tiuted  clouds ;  squalor  became  spleudour, 
life  a  dream,  the  world  a  gorgeous  insubstautial 
pageaut.  The  barriers  of  Time  aud  space,  those 
landmarks  and  anchorages  of  the  finite,  themselves 
disappcared,  and  the  mind  recovered  the  temporary 
freedom  of  the  iniinite.  Obviously,  for  most  men 
such  an  emaucipation  wouhl  be  likely  to  involve 
the  dissolution  of  virtue  aud  the  moral  seuse ;  with 


k 
W 


MÉ 


152    THE  MAK  KUS  OF  KNGLISH  PUOSE 

De  Quiuccy  it  luoaut  Hiuiply  the  wveranee  from  tlie 
roiiventioual.    The  opium  (hvaiiiH  of  Do  Qiiim>ey  weie 
not  seiisual  but  spiritual.    Tliey  hiul  the  sinjjuhir 
eflTect  of  gmitly  stimuhiting  l)oth  the  intellectual  and 
the   moral  powers.     What  they  disHolved  wsus  the 
material,  the  commouplace,  the  onlinary  aHjiects  of 
life.     Henee  tl>e  uncoiisi-iouH  incoiigruity  and  even 
alwni-dity  of  his  hal)it8.     If  he  was  eutirely  ignorant 
of  the  valne  of  nioney,  and  even  of  its  uw ;  if  he 
turnetl  night  into  day,  piowled  ronnd  tlie  bridges  of 
Edinburgh  when  all  slept  but  he,  elothed  himself  in 
the  first  chanee  giirnn-nts  that  oame  to  hand,  ap- 
peared  at  dinner-parties  in  a  finely-s«'lected  assort- 
ment  of  rags,  wandered  lonely  jis  a  cloud  among  Ihe 
throngs  of  his  fellow  men,  and  behaved  g<*nerally 
as  no  other  man  wonld  have  careil  or  dared  to  be- 
have,  it  wius  because  the  or<linary  world  of  humdrum 
civilized  cnstoms  did   not  exist  for  him.     He  was 
under  no  obligation  to  live  after  the  manner  of  a 
world  whos<!  very  existence  was  only  real  to  him  at 
intervals.     He  elaime<l  to  be  jn<lgetl  by  standards 
very  different  from  tliose  whieh  we  shonld  apply  to 
our   ordinary  fellow  mortals.     And,    to    the   great 
credit  of  all  who  knew  liim  with  any  inl  *    ley,  he 
AViis  so  judged.     He  was  loved  and  esteem    :  by  some 
of  the   best   men   and  women    of  his  t.  ae.     They 
laughed  perhaps  at  liis  grotesqne  childlike  nnfamili- 
arity  with  the  oommonest  mattere  of  practical  life, 
but  they  know  him  aswise,  tender,  and  patient,  they 
listened  with  dclight  to  his  conversation,  they  shielded 
him  as  far  as  they  were  able  from  the  inoonveniences 
of  liis  conduct,  they  honoured  him  alike  as  mystic 
and  mar 

Even  if  De  Quincey  had  nevereome  under  the  thrall 


y 


'i 


THOMAS  DK  QUINCKY 


153 


of  opium,  it  iMilouhtful  inKM'voicoiiUl  havflM-huvHl 
like  Ull  oniiiiiiry  nioitii,!.     Thrin  are  soiiu*  ii!itim'.s 
ronstiliHioiiulIy  iiuapahU^  ulcoiiveulional  lM'havioiir. 
A  «liop  of  wild  blooU  lius  been  niixwl  with  the  mbcr 
s«Mpieiict;8  of  pwligive :  tho  uomatl  is  n'sur::eut  in 
tlK'111,  the  Ishmaulitc,  the  rest  less  teuaiit  of  some  for- 
aoUcu  primeval  world.     Such  a  nature  wasTliormirs ; 
(^n'org<»  Borrow  showi-d  the  same  chariwteristics,  and 
Sl»,  from  the  firat,  did  De  Quimey.    Civilizatiou  is,  in 
«'HSfuce,  au  atterapt  to  tame  nature,  and  one  of  ita 
most  palpable  results  is  the  attenuatioii  of  vigoroas 
imlividualities.     But  even  in  the  oldest  civilizations 
from  time  to  time  men  are  born  Mho  refuse  to  come 
under  the  yoke.     They  pivfer  sti-euuous  liberty  to 
bondage  with  eaae.     Th«>y  are  irn-sistibly  attraoted 
by  the  li  fe  of  the  open  road,  tho  hard  adventurous  life 
<tf  tlu>  wanderer  who  has  never  scen  a  tax-gatherer  nor 
paid  a  rate.     Perhaps  of  all  mortals  they  su-e  the  hap- 
l»iest,  be(!anse  they  have  the  fewest  wants  aud  the 
somres  of  their  happiness  are  the  easiest  of  access. 
Pity  is  wasted  on  them  :  they  have  their  own  meth- 
ods  of  delight,  of  which  the  dull  plodding  citizeii 
knows  nothing ;  and  even  amid  the  real  hardships  of 
their  lot,  they  retain  mueh  of  the  irrespousible  joy- 
ousness  of  the  bird  or  of  the  child. 

With  all  liis  ilts  of  profound  melancholy.  De  Quin- 
eey  tlius  lived  a  happy  life  by  living  it  in  his  own 
way.  One  ean  hardly  pity  the  eniancipated  school- 
boy  wandering  at  large  through  Wales,  sleeping  on 
bure  hillsidcs,  the  debtor  of  a  casual  charity,  and  hard 
pilt  to  it  at  times  to  fiud  bread.  Nor  can  one  alto- 
gcther  pity  the  youtli  sucked  into  the  vortex  of  Lon- 
don life,  familiar  with  "stony-hearted  Oxford  Street," 
and    the    brother  of  its  sjid   sisterhoods.     He  pos- 


ÉHå^ 


f* 

J 


UA    Tlli:  MAKKKS  OF  E.VJLISII  VliUSK 

w's««hI  \Ur  t.'iii|M'isuiH'iit  which  l«l»'ali7,»'K  all  tliingn,  m 
flial  ;«ll   I.    siiw  was  .mh-ii  in  viwJ   miwly  outllm-N  a 
rioiuly  i.'i.iiitusiiiujroria  -to  um;  a  lavoiuiU)  woid  of 
his  owii-  pi.  .Uui  on   tiu'   i>aliiu|Ks«wt  ol  liiH  hrain. 
Kv«ii  in  hi''      ussitioiw  ol"  Muilering  there  wa-s  somt'- 
thingjMi    liar,    .oignant,  aml  intfnss»'.  which  bi-ought 
th«Mu  «i.Miv  .1  u    to  Udight,  in  thi' Hiinic way  iu  whuh 
«•xlmu-  .  n     Ih   .mu;8  imiuvguatt-U  with  tlit'st>h,^afiou 
of  heilt.     Mu>    II  .  n  who  had  t  laluml  thf  louyh  hand- 
ling Wh*  'i  1).    j   iucfy  i-iuliiml  inyouth,  would  havt- 
Imm  glui  ,     i.,  ,,,.,       ,,,   .    ji  ba.l  divam  ;  if  (licy  had 
iHh-ctn!  .>,.  i,  ,,  tpvals  it  would  hav.'  b«t'ilwith 

disgiist  Oi   flia    ..     To  «iK-ak  of  «ucli  thiugs  by  way 
of  literar;^   perl  i  ru.uco,  would  have  wenied  an  ont- 
i.tge  011  liic  iiitKlrsty  .,f  iiatuiv;  esiMcially  wheii  the 
narrative  in  vol  ved  tii«'  confession  of  a  habit  so  en- 
slaving  ns  the  opium  hal. it,  whieh  very  early  beeame 
au  iutegial   lact<ir  of  J)e  Quineey's  life.     But  De 
Quinoey  felt  uo  shanie  in  such  coufessiouH,  because  he 
ideahzed  all  his  exiK-riences,     He  tells  us  wilh  pt  r- 
feet  caliiiiuss  of  all  the  sordid  miseries  he  euduretl, 
and  of  his  growing,  and  at  hust  abject,  enslavement  to 
opium,  because  he  realized  thes((  things  ouly   from 
their  subjective  side.     He  speaks  as  a  child  might 
speak,  With  aslounding  frankuess,  yet  with  couiplete 
inuoceuce.     Thcie  is  hardly  a  more  curious  ph«-noni- 
enon  in  litemry  liistory  thaii  this.     Were  his  ('o)i/r.><- 
niun»  of  au  Opium-niln-  entin-ly  d«'stitute  of  style,  vet 
it  would  i-emain  oiie  of  the  most  remarkable  hnnmn 
documents  in  existence;  wheu  lliere  is  added  to  its 
extraordinaiy  subject  matter  a  style  never  suri»a>.s4'd 
ill  elo(iuenc(^  or  imaginative  lichness,  it  is  not  diflicult 
to  understand  how  De  Quiucey  has  come  to  o<'eupy 
the  place  of  a  classic. 


( i 


THOMAS  DK  (iriXCEY 


1.-5 


!)«•  <iiiiiir«y  in  »t  h\n  \^nt  jn  tho  ConfcMMiom  mu\ 
parlM  of  the  SiiMphiti,  lN-r:iiiM>  in  tlws»-  wrifiiijfs  \u> 
IoiiimI  tiK'  liilhst  opportuiiit.v  lor  tlio  display  of  ».ino- 
I  ion  and  iimiffination.     Hy  natiin-  and  inslin»!  ho  was 
u  immI  ;  by  wliirh   [  niran  limt  hin  uppivlmision  of 
Ulings  w;wt'Hs«'nfiaily  p<M'tic.     TIutv  air  in<l«>«'d  pjw- 
s;ij;«'H  in  tlir  (\mJ'rHHiimn  wliich  arr  ho  «•x(|nisit«'!y  nuMl- 
nlat«'«l  tliat  tlicy  nniy  U»  (U'»MTib<Hl  as  tyric,  aiul  tliry 
prtMlnr»'  lln'kindofa'Hth»tirpl«'iwnn' wliich  is|MM'nli;ir 
lo  «mil   piH^iy.     Take  the  wfil  kn«»\vn  passiijre  in 
which  h«'  speaks  of  f  ht'  tuinultnons  liorror  und ««  stasy 
of  Iiis  diviiins,  fnil  of  th«'  oppirasion  of  in«*xpial»l»' 
\in\\\,  doniinatctl  hy  thfsenseof  •'  tiiyst<  rioiist'<iip,s«','' 
pnu-tiatetl  by  a  strange  "  mnsic  of  pr.  pamtion  and 
awakoning  Hiirpr^'.     .     .     .     Theu,   Ir  o  a  chorii.-. 
tht!  [cission  d<H'iM'i.('d.     S..iae  great<'r  intorrst  was  at 
stuk<',  sonie  niigliticr  caiLs»    tlian  ever  yKthcmvunl 
had pN'ad(Ml,  or  trnniiK't  had  proclaiined.     Thrn  <ai  u> 
Hiiddon  alarms,  Imrryings  to  and  fro  :  tr<>pidation>s    f 
innnincrable  fu^Mtivcs,  I  knew  not  whether  from  tho 
gixMl  caiisc  or  tlic  bad  ;  darkiifssand  lifjlits  ;  tonipost 
and  hnniaii  faccs ;  and  at  last,  witli  tli    senst-  that  all 
was  lost,  feinale  fonns  and  featnrcis  ih  t  wer«' worth 
all  \\w  world  to  nu^ ;  and  hut  ai-ionwnt  aljowed— and 
clasped  hands  with  lieart-breakiM-,'  ])artin;:     and  then 
— evorhtstin^  farewells  !  and  with  a  >i;rh,     mIi  as  the 
eaves  of  Hell  sifjjlied  wltcn  th»'  iin  . -^  nons    ii«»ther  iil- 
tered  thf  ablioncd  nam.-  of  D«Mf'i,  the  soniul  was  le- 
verheiat<-d— everlastiiifxiaivw»-  ^!  aml  .tfjain,   indyet 
af,Min    reverberated    ev^rl  isti    ;    t.irewells !     Aud    T 
awoke  in  strn<r;;les,  and  <    ie<!   ilond.  '  I  will  sleop  no 
UIO!»  ! "        Heie  \ve  liave  ii  i  ii«'cnmulatioii  of  imajjes, 
eaeli  essentially  f»oet         Tl» is  power  of  eiiinulative 
iinageiy  is  peeuliar  to  l  n>  ()nii!< .  \       Wheu  his  niind 


n 


15G    TUK  MAKKUS  Ol''  EXCJLISH  PROSK 


' 


li 


rr 


is  struug  to  iuteusity  lu'  seeuis  lo  receive  a  multitiuU' 
of  almost  simultaufoiis  ialI>I-e88iou^« ;  bu  lomumui- 
tales  to  us  the  sous»-  of  iuileucribiible  commotion ; 
Uieie  is  a  rush  and  tumult  iu  his  ihutoric  which  is 
thrilliug  aud  overpoweriug ;  yet,  iKJihaps,  not  so 
luufh  a  movemeut  aa  of  a  pageaut  tliat  rolls  past  us, 
jw  of  something  that  soara  over  us,  spleudourcappiug 
spleudour,  till  wouder  holds  us  breathless.  It  is  like 
his  dream  of  the  delirious  Pirauesi  aud  his  staircase ; 
aerial  tlights  of  staii-s  opeu  oue  above  the  other,  till 
the  abyss  swallows  all.  Aud  iu  pjissages  like  these 
the  uiethod  as  well  as  the  uiatter  comes  uearer  poetry 
thau  prose.  Modulatious,  melodies,  aud  rhythmie 
utiects  uukuowu  to  prose  surprise  the  ear ;  iu  sub- 
stauce  aud  expressiou  they  are  poetry. 

How  far  what  is  sometimes  Ciilled  "  prose-poetry  " 
is  a  legitimate  form  of  litemry  art,  is  a  questiou  that 
uiight  be  eudlessly  debated.  Most  eritics  iusist  that 
the  deuiarcatiou  betweeu  prose  aud  poetry  is  sharp 
and  dcH-isive,  that  the  properties  of  the  one  ai-e  uot 
the  proiKirties  of  the  other,  aud  that  by  miugliug  the 
two  we  do  but  suceeed  iu  begettiug  a  Eurasiau  form 
of  literature,  to  which  little  credit  attaches.  But 
sueh  a  rigid  distiuctiou  can  scarcely  be  maiutaiued. 
The  great  Elizabelhan  writere  perpetually  iutroduce 
into  prose  the  modulatious  of  poetry.  Iu  the  preface 
to  Iijileigh's  Hitttory  of  the  World  are  many  examples 
of  this  practice  ;  it  is  found  iu  Miltou's  prose  writ- 
ings,  iu  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Urn  Biiriid,  aud  iu  the 
pure  melodious  prose  of  the  English  Biblc.  Every 
oue  recalls  Miltou's  superb  description  of  the  Euglish 
nation  :  "Mi'thiuks  I  see  iu  my  mind  a  uoble  aud 
puissiint  nation,  rousing  herself  like  a  stroug  mau 
after  sleep,  aud  shaking  her  iuvincible  locks ;  me- 


>  i 

il 

hl 


THOMAS  J)E  QULNCKY 


l.n 


thiuks  I  see  her  as  au  eagle  mewiug  her  mighty  youlh, 
aud  kiudliug  her  uuUazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday 
beam ;  purgiug  aud  uuscaliug  lu;r  loug-abused  sight 
at  the  fountain  itself  of  hejiveuly  radiauce ;  while  the 
whole  noise  of  timorous  aud  ilockiug  birds,  with  these 
also  who  love  the  twHight,  flatter  about  amazed  at 
what  she  meaus."     Or  take,  agaiu,  a  well-kuowu 
passage   from   Sir  Thomas   Browue'8   Um  Bur  lat, 
whereiu  he  speaks  of  the  boues  of  the  dead  as  haviug 
"rested  quietly  uuder  the  drums  aud  trajupliugs  of 
thi-ee  couquests."    Every  oue  feels  at  ouce  that  these 
spleudid  bursts  of  rhetoric  do  uot  justly  beloug  to  the 
r«'alui   of  prose.     De   Quiucey   called    them   "iui- 
passioued  pi-ose,"  aud  impassioued  prose  iuseusibly 
fusos  itself  iuto  poetry.     lu  other  words,  prose  at  a 
certaiu  height  or  heat  of  pjissiou  becomes  rhythmii-, 
aud  passes  iuto  a  series  of  "complox  harmv,^;v's," 
comuiou  to  trae  poetry,  but  uuusual  iu  pi-ose  writiug. 
To  write  thus  is  certaiuly  uot  to  beget  a  bastard  or 
Eurasiau  form  of  litemture.    The  form  is  legitimate 
euough,  but  it  is  rare  be<  uise  it  demauds  in  the  prose- 
writer  all  the  gift  aud  temperameut  of  the  poet.    De 
Quiucey  was  perfeetly  right  wheu  he  described  the 
Con/emons aud  the  Susjuna  as  "modes of  impasisioued 
prose  "  ;  the  ouly  mistsike  he  made  was  iu  supposing 
that  he  was  the  iuveutor  of  the  art,  or,  to  quoto  hiss 
owu  words,  "that  sueh  modes  range  themselves  under 
uo    prccedeut  that  T  am  aware  of  in  literature." 
There  were  many  piectHleuts :  Raleigh,  Milton,  aud 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  hud  all  preceded  him  iu  the  art. 
The  ouly  diflference  is,  that  what  these  older  writers 
did  ofcasionally  he  did  habitually,  and  what  psissed 
withont  comment  iu  their  days  seenunl  a  uovelty, 
and  even  an  auomaly,  when  introduced  iuto  the 


I-.S    TUK  MAKEIiS  OK  KX(JI,lhiH  I'I!()SK 


ri 


It: 


M 


m 


sober  literature  of  tlu'  niiiotwiith  ceuluiy.  (.Jiaiitcd 
the  poetic  temiieraineut  aud  geuius  iii  a  wiiter,  and 
it  matters  very  little  what  veliiele  of  literury  per- 
formance he  may  æleet ;  the  temperauient  will  over- 
msister  the  vehicle,  turniuK  it  to  uew  uses,  and  secur 
ing  by  it,  or  lu  spite  of  it,  uew  efTeets.  If  De  Quineey 
wrote  what  has  beeu  called  prose-poetiy,  it  was 
siujply  because  he  was  a  poet  eugaged  in  writing 
prose. 

Xatumlly,  De  Quincey  did  not  always  kcep,  or 
seek  to  keep,  the  h'vel  of  impassioued  prose.    To  tell 
tiie  truth,  few  writers  have  mixed  more  chaff  with 
their  fiae  wheat.     The  dominant  vice  of  his  wiitiug 
is  diffusiou.    His  thought  is  seldom  compact.     He 
iudnlges  iu  eudless  pareutheses  aud  qualifications : 
goes  oflf  at  a  taugeut  ou  auy  idea  that  interests  him 
foi-  the  moment,  aud  is  at  times  prolix  aud  tedious 
to  the  last  degree.    It  was  an  admimble  idea  ou  the 
part  of  Hogg  to  collect  De  Quiucey's  writiugs,  but 
it   is  quite  possible  that  De  Qniucey  would  have 
stood    higher   iu  general  estimation  if  Hogg  had 
stuek   to  his  origiual  plan  of  publishing  only  six 
^•olume8  of  Sélections.     A  man  who  writes  one  hun- 
di-ed  and  fifty  magazine  articles  obviously  writes 
often  ou  subjects  which  do  not  greatly  interest  him. 
Moreover,  few  writers  resist  the  temptatiou  of  writ- 
ing carele&sly  on  ephemeral  subjeefo*,  because  they 
regard  their  work  as  Iwin^  ephemeral  also.    Thus 
De  Quincey's  inaccunicies  are  many.     In  his  esssiy 
ou  \\'ordsworth,  he  quotes  five  passjiges  of  his  Prelmle 
from  uiemory,  and  of  the  five  ouly  one  is  correot. 
On  aiiy  matter  where  truth  is  iu  controversy,  De 
Quiueey  in  the  unsiifest  possible  eximuent  of  the  faels 
of  the  ciise.     Ofteu,  also,  his  extremely  fine  analytical 


THOMAS  DE  QULNCEY 


159 


faculty  is  put  to  very  poor  fusks  of  iiu-i-e  logic-cliop- 
piiig.     Wheii  he  utteinpts  lunnour,  he  neaily  always 
fails.     Pathos  of  the  sombre  and  melaiuholy  kiutl  he 
couhl  always  coniuiaud,  but  huinour  eludwl  hiui.     In 
fact,  what  oue  misses  in  De  Quiucey  is  the  uot(;  of  the 
realiy  gi-eat  mind.     An  ingenius  and  subtlo  niind  he 
had  ;  an  imagination  of  siugnlar  intensity  and  power ; 
but  that  uiassiveiiess  of  nature  which  gives  to  the 
work  of  the  greatest  men  a  certain  cohesive  and  in- 
herent force  and  dignity,  is  not  fouud  in  De  Quiucey. 
Yet  in  many  respc^cts,  dreamer  as  he  wa«,  he  wjus 
very  shrewd,  and  had  the  keenest  eye.     Probably 
the    best,    because    the   most  lifelike,   pieture  ever 
painted  of  Wordsworth  is  De  Quiucey's.     It  is  not 
altogether  liattering,  aud  possibly  on  some  mi  nor 
points  it  is  not  accurate.     But  whon  he  tells  us  tluit 
Wordsworth  was  *'too  mucli  euamoured  of  au  ascetie 
liarsh  sublimity  "  ;  that  he  wjis  extremely  self-centred 
aud,  therefore,  iu  small  ways  selfish  ;  that  there  was 
little  besiignity  about  him  ;  that  in  person  he  was 
not  iiupressive,  his  head  being  commonplace  and  his 
appcaiauce  almost  mean,  he  gives  us  a  vivid  and  true 
account,  iu  which   every  detail   has  been  carefully 
studied.     It  is  not  surprising  that  the  pieture  gave 
great  offeuce  tu  Wordsworth,  but  Wordsworth  might 
ha\e  remembered  that  De  Quiucey  was  not  writing 
captiously,  but  iu  a  spirit  of  the  utnu)st  loyalty  and 
admiration.     He  appreciated  Wordswortir.s  jioetry 
when  few  others  did  so,  aud  never  faihnl  to  champion 
his  caust>.     He  had  kuowu  what  it  was  actually  to 
trcmble  iu  the  presence  of  Wordsworth  ;  he  had  nu't 
him  fli-st  with  such  au  intensity  of  expectation  that 
"had  Ciiaricnuigne  and  all  his  ]MM'rage  Ikmmi  Ix-liind 
me,  or  Cæsiir  and  his  c(iuip:ige,  f)r  Dcath  ou  his  pale 


IHU    THK  MAKERS  OF  ENGLI8H  PROSK 


'•ti 


■i 


horw»,  I  shoulil  have  forgotten  tliein."     Even  when 
ho  is  criticising  the  physical  shortcomiugs  of  Words- 
worth,  he  is  at  pains  to  tell  us  that  his  facial  likenesa 
to  Milton  was  iistounding,  and  that  in  eertain  mo- 
ment** of  convei-sation  he  saw  lu  Wordsworth'8  eyes 
an  expression  the  most  solemn  and  spiritual  that  he 
had  ever  seen,  "a  light  which  neemed  to  come  from 
unfathomed  depths,  truly  a  light  that  never  was  on 
hind  or  sea."    Such  au  essay  Jis  this  suggests  that 
De  Quincey  had  the  makings  of  a  first  rate  biographer 
in  hini,  if  iucliuation  and  opportuuity  had  eoincided. 
Authors  who  leap  into  sudden  fanie  through  some 
pei-aonal  cause  often  have  to  pay  the  penalty  of  being 
ranked  after  death  as  much  below  their  rightful 
place,  as  in  life  they  were  elevated  al)ove  it.     This 
is,  in  part,  tiise  of  De  Quiucey.     From  the  moment 
that  the  Coii/esnions  of  an  EnyViHh   Opinm-cafer  saw 
the  light,  De  Quincey  wjus  famous.     His  matter  and 
style  were  new  and  entrancing,  the  story  deeply  sug- 
gestive and  aflfecting.     Bnt  in  later  geuenitions  the 
story  is  familiar,  and  its  uovelty  is  discounted.    Thus 
i^  happtMis  that  we  judge  him  by  a  colder  light,  aud 
are  insensible  to  the  glamour  that  once  clothed  his 
name.     The  dispassionate  critic  swæps  aside  sis  eu- 
tirely  irrelevant  to  the  case  the  fact  that  De  Quincey 
dnink  laudanum  by  the  wine-ghiss.     Johnson  was  a 
voracious  eater ;  Shelley  lived  on  vegetables ;  Koiits 
114'ppered  his  tongue,  that  his  palate  might  be  more 
sensitive  to  the  coolnoss  of  a  fine  wine ;   but  such 
habits  and    ecccntricities   are   best   forgotten  when 
we  discuss  (piestions  of  literature.     The  cjise  of  De 
Quincey,  in  regiird  to  opium-eating,  is  analogous  to 
the  ca,si!  of  a  painter  who  has  no  hands,   and  has 
learned   to   paiut  with   his  toes.     Mauy  estimable 


[f! 


M  ' 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  ir.l 

siHists  might  paiut  sus  well  with  tlu-ir  liands,  hut  it  is 
nutuiiil  that  the  luau  who  paints  with  his  toes  should 
b.'  much  more  ttilked  of,  aud  altmct  a  quite  dispro- 
portiouate  share  of  fauie.  The  wouder  is,  to  quote 
Dr.  Johuson's  phra^je,  uot  that  the  thiug  is  doue  well 
but  that  it  is  doue  at  all.  ' 

it    is   clear  that    the    personal    elements   in   De 
Quiucey's  living  fåme  have  not  helped  him  with 
posterity,  beyond  giving  a  iHH-uliar  int«?rest  to  iiis 
history.    But  when  every  sort  of  de«luction  is  made 
few  pei-soiis  will  doubt  that  De  (iuincey's  farne  is 
legitimate,  and  that  his  place  as  a  literary  artist  is 
seeure.     As  a  literary  artist ;  for  his  eontribution  to 
the  history  of  human  thought,  or  to  the  growth  of 
philosophy,  is  inconsiderable.    Xor  are  his  critieal 
judgments  of  any  gi-eat  value.    He  had  the  insight 
to  dis(!ern  the  greatness  of  Wordsworth,  it  is  true ; 
but,   on  the  other  hand,   he  derided  Loeke,   called 
Johnson  mendacious  and  dishonest,  spoke  of  Goethc's 
Wif/irlm  Meister  as  nonsense,  rated  Honiee  Walpole 
above  Voltaire  as  a  memoir  writor,  and  had  no  words 
strong  enough  to  express  his  contempt  and  detesta- 
lioB  of  Rousseau.     His  real  strength  lay  not  in  any 
I>ower  of  original  thought,  or  any  gift  of  luminous 
cnticism,  but  in  that  narrow  milm  of  letters  which 
may  be  designated  literary  phantitsy.     Here  the  lit- 
eniry  artist  appears  ;  the  man  of  nire  delieaey  of  .    r 
and  exquisite  stMise  of  words  who,  by  means  of  I.   •- 
gnage,  seeures  eflTeets  that  can  be  best  described  as 
musieal.     He  himself  makes  no  secret  of  his  method  : 
he  explains  that  he  laboured  to  attain  "  the  evasion 
of  cacophouy,"  aud  that  his  ear  could  not  endure  "a 
stMitenee  endi ng  with  two  eonseeutive  trochet^s."    And 
the  i-esult  is  ofteu  very  beautiful :  the  best  pa-ssages 


ir»2    THK  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PIIOSE 


/,! 


of  De  Quiuæy  liave  never  beeu  surpassed  for  sus- 
tuiiuHl  spleudour  of  Innguage,  exquisite  balaiicc  aiul 
uuHlulation,  and  rhytbmical  chariu.  No  doubt  ouo 
uiight  tire  of  such  a  style  in  a  compeudious  work  of 
history,  but  in  the  brief  essays  of  De  Quincey  it  is 
the  most  seductive  and  impreasive  of  styles.  The 
man  who  wore  pure  cloth  of  gold  by  way  of  ordinary 
sipparel  would  be  a  ridiculous  object,  but  there  are 
oiicjwions  when  it  may  be  worn  with  fine  eflFect.  In 
this  respect  De  Quincey  stands  related  to  the  great 
niiisters  of  a  soberer  prose,  much  as  Poe  does  to  the 
great  poets.  Poe  perfomis  the  most  astoundingjug- 
glery  with  words,  and  with  results  so  inimitable  that 
none  can  deny  his  rank  amoug  the  true  poets  of 
the  world.  But  no  oue  would  dream  of  comparing 
Poe  with  Wordsworth  ;  nor  would  oue  oompare  De 
Quincey  with  Milton;  although  in  their  own  way 
Pot^  and  De  Quincey  are  as  deserving  of  praise  as 
Wordsworth  and  Milton.  But  it  is  the  way  of  the 
literary  artist,  as  distinguished  from  the  great  seer  or 
the  profound  thinker.  In  those  steadfast  qualities  of 
tharacter,  which,  after  all,  constitute  the  immovable 
basis  of  great  fåme — that  interior  force  of  soul  and 
ptirsonality  which  make  Milton  and  Wordsworth 
living  and  abiding  influences — De  Quincey  was  as 
deficient  as  Poe ;  but,  like  Poe,  he  was  oue  of  the 
greatest  of  literary  artists,  loving  and  using  his  art 
for  its  own  sake  in  the  main,  and  it  is  as  a  liter- 
ary  artist  of  extraordinary  accomplishment  that  De 
Quincey  wiJl  be  remembered. 


:!li 


■Ha 


ik 


XI 
CHARLf^S  LAMB 

Bom  in  The  Temple,  London,  February  10,  1775.  Educated  at 
ChriiWa  Hoxpital,  which  he  lefl  in  November,  1789.  Obtaintd  a 
ekrkahip  in  the  India  Houae,  1792.  Blnnk  Verac,  by  Charlea  Lloyd 
and  Charlea  Lamb,  1798  ;  Roaamund  Grny,  1798  ;  John  IVoodvil,  a 
Drama,  1802  ;  Taleafrom  Uhakeapeare,  1807  ;  Kasaya  by  Elia,  bcgtin 
in  London  Magazine,  1820  ;  Collected  Edition,  1823  ;  LastEaaayaof 
Elia,  1833.     LHed  at  Enfield,  29<A  December,  1834. 

THE  art  of  essay-writing  which  De  Quiucey 
perfected  iii  oiie  form,  was  carried  to  a  yet 
rarer  perfection  by  Charles  Laiub.     lu  his 
haucls  it  became  a  vehicle  of  the  brightest  bauter,  of 
the  uiost  iutimate  personal  coufessiou,  and  of  apecul- 
iarly  humane  aud  tender  wisdom.     Lamb  is  frankly 
au  egoist,  as  was  Moutaigne,  but  of  a  much  more 
genial  temper.    There  is  a  gentleuess  in  his  irony 
and  a  sweetuess  in  his  humour  which  no  one  else  has 
attained :  they  spring  from  his  width  of  sympathy 
aud  eutire  humility.     He  is  odd  aud  delights  in  odd- 
ity ;  loves  paradox,  revels  in  perversity,  and  pushes 
both  to  the  point  of  "delicate  absurdity"  ;  ecceu- 
trieity  of  any  kind  attracts  hiui,  couveutionality  re- 
pels ;  he  has  no  scorn  of  human  weakuess,  no  respect 
for  any  species  of  respectability ;  his  wit  is  a  very 
Ariel  in  its  lightsomeness,  a  Puck  in  its  love  of  frolic  ; 
aud  yet  withal,  a  serious  wisdom  dwells  withiu  his 
nu>re  fantastic  mood,  and  he  jests  sis  oue  who  hears  be- 
hind  his  laughter  "the  still,  sad  music  of  humauity." 
Of  no  man  is  it  truer  that  you  must  either  greatly 

163 


!jl 


II 

m 


MM 


■^■1 


KU    TIIK  MAK1•:I^S  OF  KXCJLISH  PUO.SK 


i.,: 


love  Iiiiii  ur  UiKlikc  hiiii.  The  luuu  ufgmvu  tcinpfr 
Mill  probably  ilislike  hiui,  timliii|r  little  iu  him  biit 
IVivolity  ;  the  num  whoHe  iniud  i»  uut  tuo  KtiiTto  uu- 
beud,  and  whose  temper  still  retuiuH  u  eertuiu  buoy- 
auey  of  ehildhood,  will  tind  him  the  mo.st  delightful 
of  compaiiions.  A  great  deal  bas  beeii  made  of  the 
peculiarly  harsh  eritici8m  which  Cailyle  passed  ou 
Lsimb,  but  it  is  quite  easy  to  see  bow  matters  stood 
betweeu  them.  Carlyle  could  appreeiate  humour,  but 
it  waa  of  the  "pawky  "  kiud  commou  to  hiscouutry- 
meu,  or  of  the  saturuiue  kiud  i)ecuUar  to  Swift. 
Lamb's  humour  was  of  the  grøtesque  oi-der,  aud  Car- 
lyle mistook  it  for  bufifoouery.  To  Carlyle  he  was  a 
foolisU  imp,  grimaciug  aud  daueiug  before  the  veiled 
solemuities  of  life — " coutemptibly  small,"  "a  sorry 
pheuomeuou,"  "au  adept  iu  ghsistly  make-believe 
wit. ' '  Aud  uo  doubt  iu  the  proseuce  of  Carlyle,  Lamb 
showed  at  Lis  woi-st.  Oue  of  his  elosest  frieuds  aud 
most  ardeut  admiivra,  Mr.  Patuioi-e,  has  told  us  that 
iu  uusymi)athetic  society  Ljimb  always  showed  badly, 
aud  "the  lirst  iuipressiou  he  uiade  ou  ordiuary  peo- 
ple  was  always  uufavourable,  souietimes  to  a  violeut 
aud  repulsive  degree."  Lamb  had  a  love  of  shock- 
iug  people  who  were  autipathetic  to  him.  The  pres- 
euce  of  a  very  .soleuui  persou  provoketl  hiuito  impish 
perversity  of  teuiper  and  absurdity  of conduct.  Prob- 
ably Carlyle  affected  hiui  in  this  wuy.  For  ouee  the 
iusight  of  Carlyle  failed  him,  aud  he  Uid  not  pcrceive 
the  real  genius  of  Lamb,  and  not  so  mueh  as  guessed 
that  out  of  pure  mischiet  Lamb  was  deludiug  him  by 
a  preteuce  of  folly,  aud  all  the  while  quietly  deriding 
him  for  his  Scotch  obtuseuess. 

If  Lamb  sometimes  behaved  iu  a  way  soar^ .  .j  com- 
patibh?  with  commou  seuse,  or  even  sauity,  L.  *  tem- 


>  I 


CHARLES  LAMH 


n;5 


'iiiueut 
uiau    evei' 


peni 


aiMl  history  should  be  niueiulMJitHl.     No 
caniitl  ii  heavUT   bunlcii  tlirough   life, 
Evny  Olle  kiiows  the  putlu-tic  story  of  hin  sint «m'h 
iiuiiiia,  aud  the  cloud  which  it  thiew  ovtT  lx>th  lives. 
It  is  not  always  recolleete<l  that  Ijjiinb  hiinself  had  at 
oiie  time  beeu  coutiued  iu  au  Jisyluui.     With  hini  the 
attaek  soou  piussed  aud  uever  returuetl,  but  the  taiut 
wjus  iu  hini.    Those  who  loved  hiui  kuew  this,  aud 
kuew  how  to  make  allowauee  for  his  odditiea.     Hay- 
dou,  the  paiuter,  ri-couuts  au  iuimitable  sceue,  iu 
whieh  Lauib  showed  himself  iu  his  most  irrespousible 
humour.     It  was  at  what  Haydou  calls  "The  immor- 
tal  diuuer,"  held  iu  his  studio  ou  December  28,  1817. 
Wordswoith  aud  Keats  were  preseut,  aud  Lamb  led 
the  fuu.     "Now,  you  old  Lake  poet,  you  rascally 
l)oet,"  he  cried,  "why  do  you  call  Voltaii-e  dull  f " 
Huddenly  thcre  iutruded  ou  the  compauy  a  certaiu 
Comptroller  of  Stamps,  of  abuormal  stupidity,  who 
tried  to  make  himself  agreeable  by  askiug  Words- 
w(uth  if  he  did  uot  thiuk  Miltou  a  great  geuius.     He 
followed  this  up  by  a  similar  questiou  about  Newtou, 
whereupou  Lamb  roæ,  iu  a  spirit  of  the  wildestdroll- 
eiy,  tallfd  for  a  caudle,  aud  iusisted  upon  examiuiug 
"  the  phreaological  developmeut"  of  the  uufortuuate 
comptroller.     The  comptroller,  nothing  abashed,  put 
his  questiou  afreshj    Limb  immediately  begau  to 
siug  — 

"Diddle,  diddle  dunipling,  my  son  Jobn, 
Went  to  bed  with  hia  breeches  ou." 

"My  dear  ('(uirles!"  said  Wordsworth,  but  Lamb 
ouly  chauttHl  the  absurd  ditty  the  louder.  "Do  let 
me  have  auotiier  look  at  tliatgeutlenmu'sorgaus,"  he 
cried.     Keats  aud  Haydou,  properly  scaudalized,  or 


«Hil 


IGC    THE  MAKEIiS  OF  ENCJLISH  PROSE 


1.' 


:l 


piftcndiiiK  to  Im)  so,  Imrried  Lamb  into  tlie  paiuting 
room,  from  wliich,  amid  p<»als  of  laughter,  the  voice 
of  Lamb  could  Htiil  be  heard,  iiuportunaU* — ''  Allow 
me  to  Hee  his  organs  ouce  more."  Here  u  drollery. 
with  juHt  a  touch  of  madm>M8  in  it,  quite  seaudalous 
to  rtttpectability,  and  a  st  ranger  entirely  ignorant  of 
l^unb,  who  only  saw  him  oncc,  and  in  Huch  a  ntoo<l 
UH  this,  might  be  pardoned  if  he  cal  led  Lamb'8  wit 
''diluted  insanity."  But  Wordsworth  clearly  was 
not  scandalized,  grave  as  he  was ;  he  kuew  Lamb  too 
>vi'll.  It  might  be  Siiid  of  Liimb,  ii8  of  Abraham  Lin- 
coln, ^' laughter  was  his  vent"  ;  if  he  had  not  laughed, 
he  would  have  died  of  a  frenzied  brain  or  of  a  broken 
htnirt.  With  Lamb  the  maddest  mood  of  frolic  was  a 
rebound  from  the  blackcst  mood  of  melancholia ;  a 
fatt  which  Carlyle,  who  did  know  Lamb's  history, 
might  have  remembercd  before  he  used  the  phrase 
"diluted  insanity,"  which  in  v iew  of  that  sad  history 
is  nothing  less  than  brutal. 

The  oddity  of  Lamb's  bchaviour  owed  something, 
no  doubt,  to  his  habits  sis  well  iis  his  tcmperdment. 
That  Lamb  was  an  habitual  drunkard  is  au  absui-d 
charge,  over  which  no  serious  critic  will  pause  foi*  a 
moment.  But  that  he  wa.s  convivial  in  his  habit», 
orten  beyond  the  degree  of  strict  sobricty,  cannot  be 
doubted.  Even  his  sister,  with  all  her  rcvercnce  for 
him,  speaks  of  him  sis  coming  home  "very  smoky 
and  drinky."  He  himself,  in  the  piece  of  patlu-tic 
biuiter  in  which  he  describcs  "his  late  friend  Elisi," 
iulniitii  that  his  hsibits  wcit»  scarccly  such  as  i-especta- 
ble  persons  would  approve.  He  uses  one  phmse,  in 
apology  for  Elisi'8  habit  of  smoking,  which  may  cover 
otlier  hiibits  also,  whcii  he  speaks  of  tobsicco  sis  "a 
solvent  of  si)eech."     The  fact  was  that  Lamb  was 


Mi 


Cil AUJ.es  J.AMIi 


107 


iutcuuely  ^'p.y,  uiid  hud  tli«^  Hhy  muirM  morbid  wlf- 
cuuiM'ioimiU'.ss  Sliul  wiinji i v«'  dread  of  mn-iety.  H|MH><'h, 
in  ttiiy  i'sw4i  ditliciilt  to  liiiii,  Wits  rfuihTwl  doiihly  «lif- 
iiciilt  by  hiH  MtiimmtT.  One  enn  nnidily  umUM-Htuiid 
tliat  to  siii-h  u  mau  Htimulauta  piovttl  a  "Holvt>iif  of 
speech."  They  served  to  uuloi*k,  a»  Mr.  Patiuore 
puts  it,  ''tlic  i>oor  cuiiket  iu  which  the  rich  thoughti} 
of  Charles  I^uub  were  shut  up."  Moreover,  iu  the 
early  part  jf  tlie  uiueteeuth  ceutury,  couvivial  habits 
perva<leil  «otiety  iu  a  degree  uow  eulirely  uukuuwu. 
The  ( urliiT  uovels  of  Dickens  made  much  of  couviv- 
iality  ;  occ^iMioual  iuebricty  ia  uowhere  treated  oa  a 
serioiis  offeuce,  whereas  auythliig  iu  the  uature  of 
total  abstiueurø  is  held  up  to  ridieule.  The  part  that 
the  braudy-bottle  plays  iu  The  l'lcktcick  Papera  is 
euormous,  and  the  soeial  historian  of  the  future  will 
fiud  quite  enough  iu  Dickens  uloue  to  suggest  the 
hard-drinkiug  habits  of  the  peri<xl.  Ofcourse,  this 
is  no  adequatt!  excuse  for  L:unb,  but  it  is  at  least  au 
exteuuation,  since  raeu  must  be  judged,  if  they  are 
judged  fairly,  not  oidy  by  fixed  standards  of  ethics, 
but  by  the  uature  of  their  times.  Liunb  in  tliese  mat- 
telts was  certainly  uo  worse,  probably,  indeed,  very 
much  more  strict,  than  the  avi-nige  writerof  hisdays. 
The  chai  III  of  Liimb  to  those  wIjo  kuew  him  best 
hiy  in  his  iufiuite  kiudliuess  of  heart,  aud  the  siuguhir 
acuteness  of  his  wit.  Xo  one  could  turu  a  phnise 
with  more  nii)id  felicity,  frame  a  happier  repartee, 
sum  up  iu  a  stroke  of  wit  so  profouud  a  eriticism  of 
literature  or  life.  '*  Au  archaugel,  a  little  damaged," 
— such  is  his  treuchaut  descriptiou  of  Coleridgt». 
"Charles,  did  you  ever  hear  me  preachf"  iusked 
Coleridge  ouce.  "  I  uever  heard  you  do  anything 
else,"  auswered  Lamb.     '*If  dirt  «ere  trumps,  what 


li  I' 


^fl 


Irts    THK  MAKERS  OF  EX(iIJSII  PliOSE 

a  iiuiMl  yoii  wouhl  Imvf,"  he  oiict»  said  to  an  un- 
siivoiir.v  nu. I  play.T.     H.'  can  (n  in  joke  ou  his own 
mist\)ituiH.s -"thr  win.l   is  trmiK-.vU  to  Uu^  shoru 
LanibM"-a  ixHuIiarl.v  happy  uw  ofqnoiation,  an  art 
in  whn-h  ht>  rx.vlliMl.     It  \H  th».  Hanæ  in  his  AW^«; 
a  wit  that  Mnrpiiw>H  and  in^U^rUtH  m  uiwu  us  on  «very 
paj;»'.     Th«'  (Mhlity  of  a  man  or  of  u  .situation  is  hit  off 
in  a  phrswc,  hh  whrn  ho  «lys  of  lm  hindloitl  at  Eu- 
fifhl,  tlnit  he  haH  itjtin<l  on  forfy  ixainds  a  y.ar  «m,/ 
onc  amedoU:     Tt  was  as  in.p..sNibIt.  for  Lsunb  to  rcsist 
the  teniptation  of  poking  fun  an  f..,-  ('okMi.ljr.'  to over- 
eou»e  his  habit  of  pnaching.     One  wet  night,  alter 
suppnig  wif     'ohMi.lge,  he  takes  the  eoach  for  Hol- 
born  at  the  i       of  Ilighgate  Ilill.     As  it  is  starting, 
a  flurried  feuiale  thrusts  h.r  head  in  at  th(.  dtwr  anfi 
askj»,   "Are  you  all  full   inside  f"     "1   am,"  sjiys 
Ljimb,  With  an  ecstatic  smih^'*  it  was  the  last  piece 
of  pudding  that  did  it."     Of  his  witty  us»?  of  quota- 
tion  none  is  cleverei-  than  his  nniark  to  a  young  bar- 
rister  who  had  just  m-eived  his  liist  brief— "  I  sup- 
poseyou  ss.j.l  to  it,  'Thou  grcat  First  ('ause,  least 
understooil.'  "     The  tragic  nature  of  his  own  life  not 
only  made  him  welconn-  laughter  as  a  relief,  but  hnl 
him  to  n-cogni/,.'  in  laughter  a  divine  gift.     One  of 
his  eomplaints  against  the  Klizaln^than  dramatisls  is 
that  they  purpo.sely  dwelt  \x\wu  the  harsh  and  pain- 
ful  facts  of  Hf,.,  and  were  ''economists  only  in  de- 
light."     Land)  knew  more  than  enough  of  the  pain 
«)f  life,  but  he  was  no  economist  in  delight.     His  is 
the  spirit  of  genuin»'  mirth  springing  from  an  acute 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  but  alwavs  restrained 
trom  bifterness  by  a  recognition  of  nuui's  inherent 
nobd ity.     Xo  one  who  «-ver  siiw  tho  foibles  and  errors 
o\  human  nature  so  clearly  has  spoken  of  tlHmi  so 


n» 


CHA  ULES  LV  MB 


HM» 


UiiuUTly  ;  it  Im  unt  his  "to  !  irtuiv  uiid  wouimI  his 
ahiuulantly,"  as  Fonf  :tiul  W«  Ht«T  «lo  ;  nillicr  tlirrt' 
is  ill  hniithat  iiiifiiilin^  -'swcf-f  hfSNaiid  t^iKMl  nutcirtHl- 
iM'S.s  '  wUich  ho  attrilmtrM  t'>  ShiiiirNpfiirr. 

Liiiiib  s  diHcovcry  of  his  «>\vn  j(«'iiiii,s  wius  }i>»  m-arly 
HcciUciital  a»  mi^ht  l»e.     He  wa.s  lunn  *'nou{;h  at  »h»' 
rhrisfs  UoHpital  to  iiubilN*  a  pa.ssion  lor  lit<'ratim> 
and  fonn  a  «'low  trieiidship  with  Coleridtji».     Wh«'ii 
ht'  I«ft  the  school  it  lM-«;iiiie  lun-essjiry  for  hiin  at  oiico 
to  earii  his  bn>ad.     No  oWlitjiiijj  fiieiids  st«'p|»**«l  iu,  as 
in  the  csise  of  Col  rjdn«',  to  secu  c  for  hiia  by  their 
jjeut-ronity  "shelter  l.»  grow  rip»-  and  Icisiin'  to  (jrow 
wisi*."     His  fnthiT  wiis  iii  ill-healtli.  his  bn)ther  John 
had  saiUtl  oflt''>ii  iiis  (*wu  (.mi-s*',  d«  '•'Cinijied  to  make 
the  iiu)st  of  his  owii  lifc,  and  th<   tiiiniiy  eaine  near  to 
dept-ndinj;  on   I.;iiiib  !.ir  !  ••  ul.     \'|iat  better  coidd 
Ik!  desire<l  than  the  «•uiiHnon  sliit'  of  tli».  hard-driveii. 
middle-class     lyondonn  -a    «I»  rk-shit>?     Ho    to    lun 
clerlciiifr  Liiiiib  went,  stiHing  aiiy  diaippoiiitineiit  he 
felt  an  he  In^st  eoidd,  and   uttering   no  eonipUiiut. 
The  eutire  bunhMi  of  the  fainily  s*)OU  rested  on  his 
youug    shouldeis      Tlien    iM)verty   suddenly    Join«'d 
itself   to    tragedy :    uo   h*ss  dreadful   spectms   tluui 
nmdness  and  niui(i<i   becanie  his  fainiliaix     As  onr 
reads  the  story,  thr  wt.nder  grows  that   L.uib  ever 
gathered  strength  to  lift  up  his  liead  again.     O.-ice. 
and  ouee  oiily,  does  a  cry  of  «lespair  escape  Jiini :  "  I 
am  eompletely  shipwivcki^Hl,"  h«'  writes,  "  my  head  is 
quite  bad.     I  almost  wisii   that    Mary  were  dead," 
But   in  Ijiimb  there  was  a  (piiet    indt)mitable  mag- 
naniniity  which  tlie  greatest  might  envy.     He  reeog 
nized  at  onee  that  the  supreine  practieal  duty  «»f  iiis 
life    hencefoitli   Mas   to   <are   for   his   sister.     IVfaiy 
Lainb    \v:ls    a   rfiuaikaliii     wouian.     She   ha<l   early 


m 


170    THE  iMAKEIW  OK  KMiLlSII  I'l!OSE 


.4 


i 


learued  to  love  the  older  litemtuie,  aud  slie  had 
iJiuch  of  her  brothei'»  line  eritieal  gift.     Her  mental 
luiilady  was  iutennitteut,  allowiug  loiig  periods  of 
IKM-feet  lueidity.     It8  sigus  were  well  deliued,  and  at 
the  tii-st  approaeh  of  danger  theie  wiw  but  one  conrse 
—instant  ix-turn  to  the  asylum.     On  tliese  ternis  the 
brother  aud  sister  found  life  possible ;  but  who  eau 
estiuiate  the  honor  of  auxiety  which  hung  over  it, 
the  sense  of  ealaniity  uot  yct  plaeated,  perhaps  to 
l)rove  implacable  to  the  end  f     Was  ever  literary  life 
li  ved  before  under  such  eonditions!    Is  there  in  the 
iuveutiou  of  the  gmitest  dramatic  genius  any  situa- 
tiou  more  terrible,  any  picture  more  pathetie  thau 
that  of  Chailes  and  Mary  Liinib  walk  ing  through  the 
meadows    iu  the  morning  sunlighl,  hand-iu-hand. 
bathed  iu  tears,  towartls  the  asylum,   where,  from 
tiuie    to    time,    3Iary    Lriimb    became    a.    voluutary 
prisoner  f 

Possibly,  however,  the  conditious  of  sueh  a  life 
helped  to  turu  it  inwaixl,  and  coutributed  more  thau 
we  kuow  to  the  development  of  L{imb's  genius. 
Lamb  kuew  what  the  " eity  of  the  mind  "  meant.  Jn 
one  of  his  earlier  lettere  he  uses  a  \)]mun'  that  reveals 
mueh  ;  he  says  tluit  he  and  his  sister  were  viarkcil 
Interpreted  into  gross  fact  this  mcans  that  he  found 
the  outer  life  uiifriendly  to  him.  Thei-e  were  sudden 
exits  from  lotlgiiigs,  «luests  for  new  lodgings ;  a  man 
of  odd  habits,  n  woman  liable  to  lits  of  ins:inity  wvw 
not  likely  to  be  w<'Ieome  guests  among  landladies. 
There  weie,  no  donbt,  eoai-se  words,  eoarse  aetions; 
tliings  siiid  and  di»ne  that  wounded  the  fngitives  lo 
the  quick.  To  fhink  on  smh  things  only— thai  wav 
madMess  lay.  It  was  ahsohit.-ly  necessjiry,  as  a  meie 
term  ou  whieh  life  eould  be  held  at  all,  to  get  outside 


ln 

V- 


CHARLES  LAMIi 


171 


one'8  »'lf.     And  so  Liuub  retired  iiito  the  city  of  the 
iiiiiid  :  dwtlt  With  delight  iu  the  st'clusious  of  the 
older    lileniture;    kiiew    his    Thomsis    lirowne,    his 
Donue,  his  Cowley,  his  Burton  well ;  fed  his  mind 
with  thcir  wisdoiu  juid  their  quaiutuess,  and  forgot 
the  outer  woild.     It  is  soiuetiiues  coinphiiiied  that 
Laiub  cares  uothing  for  Nature.     This  is  not  quite 
true,  for  his  essays  show  us  that  he  fouud  great 
ph'asure  iu  sceuery  of  a  quiet  pastoral  type  ;  but  it  is 
so  tar  true  that  Lamb  was  pi-eemiueutly  a  eitizeu. 
Solitary  Nature  wius  uiuel»  too  solitary  for  a  miud 
suiitteu  with  sueh  iueunible  grief  as  Lamb'8.     But 
London,  with  its  incessjiut  pjigeant,  its  curious,  eud- 
less,  shiftiug  spectju!le,   was  eiu-ative  to  him.     He 
couUl  Um-  himself  in  it.     It  afforded  hini  precisely 
what  lie  ueeded— an  opportunity  for  constaut  observa- 
tiou,  a  drama  that  excited  him,  aud  dispelled  his 
gloonj.     Slciddaw  lie  onee  SJiw  aud  climbed,  but  his 
heart  was  in  London—"  London,  whose  dirtiest  aud 
dnib-frequented    alU'ys  I   would   not  exchange  for 
Sliiddaw,  Ilelvellyn,  Janu-s,  Walter,  and  the  Parsou 
iuto  the  bargain.     O  !  her  lanips  of  a  night !  her  rieh 
goldsmiths,    print-shops,   toy-shops,    uu-rcers,   hard 
ware  men,  piislry-cooks,  8t.  PauFs  Churchyard,  the 
Strand,  Exeter  ''hange,  Charing  Cross,  with  the  num 
upon  a  bhu-k  horse.     All  the  strwts  and  pavenn  nts 
are  pure  gold,  I  warraut  you.     At  least,  I  know  au 
alcheniy  that  turus  h»'r  mud  iuto  that  metal— a  uiind 
that  lov<'s  to  1k^  at  home  iu  crowds."     Thus,  witli  his 
lK>oks    aud    the   stnnjts,    l^unb  eontriveil   to  touch 
happiiiess,  and  fouud  iu  them  the  magie  which  at  •  "st 
s«'t  iviH'  his  genius. 

iiut    the  process  was  slow.     There  are  rwords  of 
jokes  writteu  for  the  papers  at  the  muuitieeut  rate  of 


'i 


I 


H? 


\' 


172 


r: 


I   i 


'Mi 


THE  iMAKERS  OF  EXGLLSH  J>]{()SE 


With    <wo    ginneas  a   wtH-k   from  the  iW      Minv 
^xpenments  i.   authorship  ar.  tried,    unu  n^  Uu   , 
alaroe  hKsse,!  off  the  stage  on  the  fir^t  uigh.   ll„„ 
h  m«elf  jonnng  vigorously  iu  daruning  it.  '    'is  n 

on      8h  7""""  '-'"'^  '^^"^'"^  ^"'^  -n.e      p  t.^ 
tu>n      Shdle,^  wa«  mueb  impre«H.Hl  by  it,  anU^said 

uet pest  psut  of  onr  nature  is  in  it !    When  I  think  nf 
-^an.nK,a.Lan.b's,whenIse.^br 
lunain   tbings  of  sueh  exquisite  and  complete  per- 
«:«•  .on,  wbat  should  I  hoix.  for  nn«elf,  if  I  hL^ot 

S  .n  r^  ^^  '^  ''  remarkable  how  nnerringlv 
Sbe  ey  disc-erns  the  trne  natnre  of  I.tmb's  ge^^  us 

I  Jesrz^v"  '""^'"^^^'  ^^  *^^'  ^-pi  ^ 

s^eetest  pait  of  our  nature  tliat  Lamb  exoels  -..hI 
what  he  knew  he  wa.s  able  to  con.municatTI ,  an "  ? 
ot  unnvallc.1  delicacy.  Already  in  .^mé  o  1 
verses,  forexample,  the  lines  beginning, 

•*  When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die," 

"f  l.Tfhf"''''7''""''  '"'  '^^"  verymarke<l. 
Af  Ust  the  opportunity  of  a  wi.ler  ns,^  for  his  trift 
n»"e  In  January,  1.S20,  Tf.  Lon,Io,,  MaJZ^l^, 
A^^m^aml  i„  the  August  „und.er  the  m;r;^ 

M       l.ad  tåken  lo„g  ,o  ripen  ;  he  now  found  hin.. 
■>"<i  '"the  «^s:.v  .liseovered  the  o„e  form  of  litenuT 
«'Xl)r.'s.si(,n  ade<,uate  to  his  genius  ^ 

^^.^l.   the  nature  „f  these  K,,o,„  all  sfndeuts  of 
t-ature  are    fan.iliar.     A  n.an  of  g,.„i„s  who  h  « 
iH-ed  through  such  a  life  .s  I.unb's  does  not  ^ome  " 


riaall 


CHARLES  LA  MB 


173 


foi-ty -fivo  without  lesirning  luauy  hsird  U-smms.  liy 
tliis  time  ho  will  be  gently  (letach(Hl  from  the  world, 
purged  of  the  yeasty  vanity  of  youth,  softvned  in 
Kpirit  towards  ail  men — that  ia,  if  his  heart  l)e  good — 
philoHophic  iu  temper,  apt  in  reminiHe«n('«,  meHow  ia 
judgment.  From  one  point  of  view,  Liimb  recails 
ThonuM  å  Kempis.  Each  has  patMed  his  life  in  a 
cloister,  the  one  in  a  cloister  of  literatnre,  the  ot her 
of  religion  ;  each  speaks  with  the  same  far-away 
cadenoe  in  the  voice,  the  Hame  instinct  of  felicity, 
the  same  tempered,  peaceful,  almost  happy  ssulness. 
Lamb  in  mtnliæval  times  might  very  well  have  been 
a  mouk  sworn  to  scholarshix> ;  Thom.us  a  Kempis  iu 
the  rough  tumult  of  modem  London  might  very  well 
have  tåken  refuge  in  the  Tempi t — does  he  not  coii- 
fess  that  he  wsus  never  happier  than  "in  a  uook  with 
a  book"!  It  is  the  entire  unworldliuess  of  Lamb 
that  does  as  much  to  fasciuate  us  as  anything.  He 
speaks  as  one  who  hius  long  ago  seen  Ihrough  the 
sham  of  the  world,  yet  is  i)reserved  by  his  own 
sweetness  of  nature  from  the  least  touch  of  cynicism. 
The  way  in  which  he  speaks  «»f  his  brother  John  is 
typical.  The  most  ciisuistic  of  advocates  could  not 
disguise  the  gross  seltishness  of  John  Liuub.  His 
brother  knew  all  that  well  enough,  but  he  does  not 
choose  to  speak  of  it.  He  painls  John  Uunb  failh 
fully  :  jovial,  smiling,  prosperous;  going  up  Piccu- 
dilly  "chanting,"  with  his  Hobbima  under  his  arm, 
<iuite  forgetful  of  poor  Mary,  convim-ed  that  it  is  his 
destiny  to  enjoy  life  iis  it  is  the  destiny  of  ('liarU's  to 
cndure  it;  but  tliere  is  not  one  word  of  (•omj)luint, 
of  ill-nature,  of  envy.  The  irony  is  so  geiitle  that  its 
sting  is  drawn  ;  it  is  almost  wistful.  And  it  is  in  the 
same  spirit  that  Lamb  rcgards  life  at  large.     There 


174 


THR  MAKERS  OF  KSiiUsu  vUnsK 


M 


HIV  no  Nwdiii.g  wonlsuboiitdu.  inhuniani.v  .  r 

wl.y  quarrel  with  them?  T.v*  "»"««are; 

Pan  Mali  Acht^^Ta  tt   ^ rhnTlr ^^^^^.^  ^'^ 

ail;elearlv  aiso    f  J  "^  ^"^  **"**'«  «^  after 

tirad.,  1''JL^'      T  Era*''"'"'  -ucenoau.ry 
ti.e  wise  smile  uno„  hfs  ,.n!      'T''  '^  ^''^  ^''  ^"'^ 

t-^i..pi>ine.z;:^vri-r::r^;^^^^^ 

w  til  the  old  mnnL-  ^1     1     '    ""'  '^^  "  did  lon^r  siuce 

mark  „„  E^„„»„  „,„,,,,;';::'  ^:  „'::,-  ;Vh: 

matters  I    Tlieiv  i«  .l„                            '"^"''   ""  "'"'I' 
Iviiii-  1,,-v  ,      .  ■'  ''*«"'«1  «'"t™ ,i„l,.,.. 

b«  nev .  T  ,:"r;r'"'  ""■'""'«••■  j-»'  >-  ■  ■' » , 

"I.  lins  tnut      X7        '"■'■"■     "'"■  "'■'■'•"  """■»■  ■^""» 

m„l  II"  ?Kl;*t  •'*''"''■';  '""'  ••''■•'■»>  «r,.  ,..,„,,l„|. 
that    la.v  .>.,.<..,.  ,|H.    "o    7,;;  '*"-^'"■--tlu.g^,f 
rw<>.     I^iiiih  r^iomi  tile  Iwt 


J. 


CHART.ES  I.AMR 


«MK» 

1  <i» 


1 


oqiiipoisf  of  coinpiirisoii  with  a  sin^lo  obwrvation. 
"Il"  Hliukr.spcarc  oiit<'n'(l  th«  rooiii,  w<!  shouM  all 
rist;,"  sjiid  he.  "  If  J*;.sus  fhrist  ent*,*n'(l  the  rooin,  we 
should  all  kneel." 

Humour  si  nee  Laml/s  Uay  hsw  more  and  more 
teuded  to  pure  extnivagiince.  Even  in  Dickens,  the 
greatest  of  all  Piii^lish  humourists,  tliis  dtradeuee  is 
very  plain.  Dick  Swiveller  is  humorous,  Sairey 
Gamp  is  humorous,  but  PecksuifiF  is  farcical.  In  the 
one  csise  you  have  a  character  sketched  humorouslj', 
but  yet  quite  truly  ;  in  the  other,  you  have  a  farcical 
exaggcr.itioii  of  defects,  which  is  quite  uutrue  to  life. 
And  it  is  the  fiushion  of  Pecksnitf  which  has prevaile<l 
in  later  humour,  lu  almost  all  that  passes  for 
humour  nowadays,  there  is  really  little  else  Ihan 
broad  farce.  Lamb's  is  a  much  more  delicate  aud 
subtle  art.  Probably  the  readcr  accustomed  to 
a  coarser  draught  will  fiiul  Lamb's  humour  almost 
insipid.  His  art  is  so  artless,  so  pellucid,  sa  elTort- 
Icss,  that  ifs  rarity  of  quality  is  not  perceived.  But 
it  is  tliis  peculiar  delicacy  of  touch  that  makes 
IjandVs  art  original,  and  gives  it  its  most  enduring 
(harm.  If  any  fault  may  b«'  «'hargetl  upon  it,  it  is 
that  it  smacks  sometimes  of  allectation.  Lan»b  is 
nothing  if  not  bookish.  Loving  writers  like  Sir 
Thomas  JJrowne  and  Burton  as  he  did,  it  is  not 
suri)rising  that  he  fell  into  their  conceits  and  repro- 
duced  their  qxiaintness.  But  he  did  not  imitate 
thi'm  ;  rather,  his  wliole  mind  was  so  saturated  with 
theni,  that  he  could  not  help  expressing  liims<'lf  in 
their  manner.  But  even  when  thcse  admissions  are 
made,  Lanib's  style  was  distinctively  his  own.  The 
odd  terms  of  expression,  tlie  sudden  flash  of  the 
felicitous  epithet,  owe  somethiug  to  a  profouud  study 


li 


II 


'I 


17.!  rm:  makkks  ok  K.Vii.isir  pkome 

«f  11...    ohlor  w.il..r»;    l,„t  11...  sj.irit  ..,..!  n..„„„.r 
u-e  .li,.,m.t,v...    A»    r,.g,.rd«  „„r   a,,i,r«i„(i„„  .^f 

atc      If  ||„.   „„|,„,„.j.  „,„,„   a„j^  1 

a„d  „m,,..„  ,„.,„.  i,  ,„„|,j„^,  ,„„^^  ,^  ^  ^»^  talM,,« 

».ll  »  .ay8  IK.  8omc-l..t  us  hope  m„„y_wl,„  J^^ 

Lainb'8  writings  differ  wi<lely  in  qualitv  tho.iM,  ,> 

wi  h  nioM  authors.     Thore  are  cU-grees  of  t-xcellnicé 
>"t  no  posmvely  inferior  work.     His  Ix-st  ™    ^^ 
ns  most  .ntimate;   the.se  partake  of  the  ,^'0 Tf 
confe.ss.ons,  and  thns  belong  to  the  rare.st  fbrm  o 
terature.     I.,  his  lightestveiu  of  puredrollery  ti  e 
no  „"g  to  snrp^ss  the  msertation  npon  lioL  iV^ 
I    must  aiso  l>e  remembered  that  I^vmb  was  one  of 
tl^Jnes    c.nt.<.s  .hom  English  litenUure  has  p.o 
duced.     He  was  a.nong  the  first  to  rw-ognize  Words- 
worth   ami  ,t  was  .solely  through  his  fine  discrimina- 
tion  that  a  taste  for  the  older  dramatic  writers  w,!s 
revived      Few  people  read  Is.u.   Walton  till  La n  1 

of  Melanchoh,  owe  mueh  of  their  prescM.t  popularitv 
among  students  of  literature  to  hi„..     A  stndent  , 
P^o^pherathinker;amanoforiginalmi'^^^^^^ 
wti   ,  '"--"-"t ;  H  poet  of  great  swe,.,„,..s 

^Mth.M  iKs  own  ranjce;  a  most  hnman-hearte.l  nu,,, 
oivlv  truMl,  I.„t  „,......  sonred  hy  adversit;  ;  1.,,.!!.  e' 

"wu^nannnoas,  eharitable  in  all  his  thongi.ts  and  ac-t^ 

Lugh.3h  l.t4.'ratuie-such  was  Charh^  Lamb 


f         I 


xn 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 

Bom  at  Eeclefechan,  Deeember  4,  1705.  Entered  Edinburgh 
Vnirernfy,  1809.  Publiihed  Life  of  ScMller,  1825.  Married  Jane 
Wehh,  OcttAer,  1826.  Coniributed  to  EdiHburgh  Jietnew,  HW- 
Miatter,  Foreign  Quarterly,  etc,  1828-33,  when  iSartor  Eemrtua  w»a 
piihliahed  in  Frazer's  Magaziite.  French  Reiolution,  1837.  Pant 
and  Present,  1843.  Latter-Day  Pamphlein,  1850.  CromwtlVa  Let- 
ters and  Speeches,  1845.  Hiatory  of  Frcderick  the  Oreat,  hegun 
1858.  completed  1865.  Elected  Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh  Uni- 
vermty,  1865,     Died  at  5  Chtiyne  Rmn,  Chelsea,  February  5,  1881. 

WITH  the  name  of  Thomas  Carlyle  we  be- 
come  cou.seious  of  si  changed  utmosphere 
iu  literature.     Taking  hiui  for  all  iu  all, 
he  is  the  most  represent^itive,  aud  by  far  the  greatest, 
mau  of  genius  of  the  uineteeuth  ceutury.     The  four 
uot«s  of  genius  are  originality,   fertility,  cohereuee, 
and  articulatiou.     He  is  so  far  origiual  iu  style  aud 
method  that  there  is  no  oue  with  whom  we  eau  just  ly 
<'onii)are  him.     He  followed  no  msister,  and  acknowl- 
edged  uoue  ;  his  angle  of  visiou  on  all  questions  was 
his  owu,  aud  what  he  saw  he  expres-stni  in  a  fashion 
which  (lecorous  literary  persons  of  the  old  ordi-r  felt 
to  be  dazzlingly  pervei>ie,    startling,    eruptive,    and 
even  «>utrageou.s.     His  uiiud  wjis  also  one  of  the  uio.st 
fertile  of  uiinds  :  not  so  niuoh  in"  the  matter  of  imius- 
tiious  prodnctioii  as  iii  the  mueh  i-.irer  fiiucriou  of 
lK^'«'ttiug    gr«'at    seminal    ideas,    whieh    re].ro(lueed 
theuis«'lves  over  tl*f  eutire  area  of  nuxlerii  literature. 
("ohereuee  marks  ihest;  ideas,  for  the  uuiiu  priueiples 

177 


s, 


Il  ' 


178    TFIK  MAKKItS  OF  ENCiJ.ISH  I'JU)SK 

«f  hiH  pIiiloHophy  aro  ho  «implo  jind  so  defiuite,  tliat 
iVom  his  earlifst  writings  to  his  hwt  there  is  inTfttt 
unity.  I^tly,  in  the  matter  of  articulatiou  or  ex- 
pression,  he  is  supreine.  He  enlargeil  the  poteutiali- 
ties  of  lauguage,  jvs  every  «reat  literary  artist  does, 
and  in  precision,  splendour,  aud  suggestiveuess  of 
phrase  stands  unapproachetl. 

But  Carlyle  wsus  niuch  more  even  than  a  gresit  man 
of  genius,  or  a  great  writ^r.     He  nevcT  concoived 
himst^lf,  nor  did  any  one  who  knew  him  intimately 
fonteive  him,  as  having  found  a  sufficing  expression 
of  himself  in  his  writings.     He  knew  himseif,  aud 
wius  felt  by  others,  to  be  a  great  spiritual   force. 
Cnticism  has  had  much  to  ssiy  upon  the  strangeuess 
and  niass  of  his  genius ;   it  has  hardly  yet  appre- 
heuded  aright  his  prophetic  force.     That  he  brought 
nito  English  liteniture  much  that  is  startliug  and 
brilliant  in  style  is  tlie  least  part  of  the  matter ;  lie 
l»i-ought  also  a  tiaming  vehemence  of  thought,  passion, 
sind  conviction,  which  is  unique.     Goethe,  with  his 
piercing  insight,  wjis  the  first  to  recognize  tlie  true 
nature  of  tlie  man.     He  discovered  Carlyle  long  be- 
fore  England  hswl  hesird  of  him,  when  he  was  simply 
an    unknown   and  eccentric  youiig  S<'otsman,    who 
found  jwtonishing  difficulty  in  namjng  daily  bread. 
The  great  German  incontinently  brushed  juside,  jis 
"f   relative   unimportance,    all    questions  nUmt   his 
jrenius,  and  touched  the  true  core  of  the  n«an  ,i;i(l  his 
messagtN  when  he  sjiid  that  (^irlyle  was  "a  new  monil 
>«»rce,  the  extent  and  eflti-ts  of  which  it  is  impossible 
f.,  pnnlict.''     Ii:  othcr  words,  (J(M>the  n^cognized  the 
maiii   lart    abont   him,   which  was  that   by  jiature, 
tei  ipcrament,  and  vocation,  he  was  a  pio|)lu't. 
If  Carlyle  had  Ir^^u  iusk«'<l  U»  state  what  he  under- 


THOMAS  CARI.YM-:  17.) 

8t.)od   l.y  tlio  wonl  "proplict,"  lu.  wouUl  hav.' laid 
enipluwis  ui)on  two  thinj^rs:  cleamew  aiul  vividnew 
ol"  Vision  iii  tho  apprehenaion  of  tnith,  and  rpsolute 
Nincerity  in  actiug  on  it.     Carlyle  hold  that  thei-e  i» 
within  every  mau  soiuftthing  akin  to  tho  Dæmon  of 
SocraUvs— intuition,  spiritnal  apprehensiou,  a  living 
monitor  and  guide ;  aud  that  the  man  who  obeys  this 
inwsird  voice  kuows  by  a  spt^-ic»  of  celestial  divina- 
tiou  where  his  path  lies,  and  what  his  true  work  is. 
In  nothing  does  the  easentially  prophetic  nature  of 
Carlyle  appear  more  plaiuly  than  in  these  qualitiia. 
During  the  fli-st  forty  yetirs  of  his  life,  forty  yeai-s 
spent  in  the  desert  of  the  sorest  diseipline  a  mau 
could  suffer,  there  was  no  moment  when  he  might 
not  have  instautly  improved  his  positiou  by  a  little 
judicious  compromise.     But  all  compromise  he  re- 
garded  with  scornful  anger.     He  might  have  eutered 
the  Church,  and  his  spiritual  gifts  were  vastly  in  ex- 
ce,ss  of  those  of  thousands  who  find  in  the  pulpit  au 
honourable  opportuuity  of  utterance.     He  might  have 
obtaiiied  a  professoi-ship  in  one  or  other  of  the  Scotch 
seats  of  learuing,  if  he  hiul  cared  to  trim  hiseourse  to 
sint  the  winds  and  tides  of  the  ordinary  conventions. 
He  might  at  any  moment  have  earned  an  excellent 
competeuce  by  his  pen,  if  he  had  consented  to  modify 
the  ruggedne,ss  of  his  style  and  the  doleuceofhis 
oi>nuons  to  the  standards  of  the  review  editors  and 
their  rejiders.     R„t  in  either  of  these  courses  he  roe- 
ogmzed  a  fatal  p.M-i  1  t o  h is  si ncerity.     I^)or  jus  he  wtis, 
he  would  not  budf^e  an  in,h.     H.- was  ikstidions  lo 
what  stHMne<l  t<>  uumi  like  .Teffrey  an  alwolnt.-lv  absurd 
«legriH.  over   the  honoiir  nf  his  indeiM-iideilce.      If,- 
would  make  no  hair\s-lMrailth  a«lvan<e  to  mtn.t  the 
world;  the  world   must  coin,.  ov«'r  to  liim,  ha-;  an«l 


:H 


IHO     TIIK  MAKEIIS  OF  KNUJLLSH  J»KOSK 


M 


m> 


I^VKJig»'.     Ho  iuUnl  witii  implicit  obcdienco  on  hm 
iiiUiiliou,     He  hiwl  tlu;  proplu-fs  Hteru  Biuiplicity  of 
hnhit.     lie  (uiihI  uothiii;;  for  «'oiulortor  Hiur(>HH;  aud 
wluMi  ul  hist  8iu'c««H  nimi",  his  JSpa:  Uin  siinplicity  of 
life  HuflpMtl  no  cliange.     I  f  ««ver  umii  iu  inu«N'ru  days 
kiiew  what  the  bimleii  of  propheey  lueant,  ^  hat  it  ia 
to  lx-  iuipelleU  to  ntt<ra  ue  by  au  imperiouH  instjiict 
for  trutli,  aud  lo  1h«  straiteued  iu  spirit  till  the  mes- 
sage  wjw  spokeii,  thaf  man  was  Carlyle.     Ilwasin 
this  rewjKHt  thai  he  di«i'H'<f  as  much  from  the  ordi- 
nary  man  of  letters  sus  I.sjiiah  in  bis  most  impjwsioned 
moments  from  tlie  commun  sermonwriter.     Tlu'  pul- 
pit,  the  bar,  the  profe88or'.s  ehair  were  not  for  him ; 
therefore  ho  seiml  ui>()u  pen  and  i)aj)er  as  the  only 
means  left  of  uttcring  himself  to  his  nge.     He  was 
ptMfectly  sintere  in  despisiug  even  this  as  a  medium 
for  his  spiritual  a«tivities.     Ue  despised  writing  as  a 
profession,  l>ecause  he  found  that  wheu  men  began  to 
Avrite  for  bre^id  they  became  i)oor  ereatures,  aud  if 
they  had  any  real  messsige  in  them  they  stifled  it  to 
Win  praise  or  money.     To  lK)th  praise  and  money  he 
Mjis  eontemptnously   indifferent.     His  only  passion 
wsw  a  passion  for  truth,  anil  to  speak  this  with  the 
least  possible  of  thost;  litorary  flourishes  which  cap- 
tui-e  popularity  was  li  is  meat  and  drink. 

Further  than  this,  Carlyle  was  both  poet  and  hu- 
monrist.  He  eonld  not  indeed  write  verse.  He  was 
never  able  to  master  the  teehniealities  of  the  art  of 
metre.  He  was  ius  little  able  to  write  a  novel,  whieh 
n«'xt  t-j  vei>«t  atfords  a  medium  for  the  man  of  «on- 
struetive  po«'ti<'  jjeiiins.  He  triinl  Ijoth  arts,  with  nire 
and  i)ai1ial  snceess  in  iJu-  first,  and  abjeet  failure  in 
the  s<'cond.  fJcKthe,  who  is  the  only  nian  who  eonld 
be  spoken  of  even  in  a  paHj;,]  s«'nse  as  rarlyle's  mas 


THOMAS  CARI.YLK 


ISI 


tW,     lUUl     a    WITlie    fM|llilM>iN()    «r    liMllhy,  Sl    fli»'    aiMl 

8ii|>r«'iii«'  urtistic  hcuw,  whirh  «•nahlnl  liim  to  m«<««mI 
wHially   in   iMietry,   dnuiui,    flction,   or    phihtHopliy. 
(•arl.vle*«  jjeuiiw  wat*  sus  rniiarkabU^  as  (iot'tlu''H,  hut 
itii  iK)Wt'n*  lay  apart  in  stmmiiiig  fln'iniwH<'H,  iu-IxiIoiih 
iuiU  chuotif,  aud  w«'n*  not  ciHirdinattjU  into  iwiftt-t 
liarnioiiy  by  that  æsthftic  seuse  which  wjus  Ciwtlu-'» 
bighest  gift.     But  fuudaiuentally  be  whh  a  poH,  and 
aniong  tlie  gmiltwt  of  jKx^t».     He  Siiw  everytbing 
tbrougli  tlie  medium  of  au  iiitfune  and  seairbing  iui- 
agination.     No  oue  could  d«'«t'ribe  the  iuipicssion 
wbich  his  Frcnch  Revolutiun  produces  ou  the  niind 
better  than  he  himaelf  hiw  doue,  wheu  be  ssiys,  "  Nor 
do  I  meau  to  iuvi^tigate  much  more  about  it,  but  to 
splash  down  wbat  I  know  in  large  ntawes  of  colours, 
that  it  may  look  like  asmokeaud  flamec'ouflsigriiti(»u 
in  the  distance,  whieh  it  is."     He  cannot  even  walk 
in  Itegent  Stret*twithoutexelaimiug,  ''Tome,  througb 
these  tbin  eobwebs,  iJeath  and  Eteruity  såte  glaring." 
All  his  i)ei-sonal  sensations  are  niagnified  into  the 
s;um' gigantic  proporlions,  iiow  lurid,  now  grotoscjue, 
by  the  same  atraosphere  of  imagiuation  througb  whith 
they  are  pereeived.     His  sensitiveness   is  extrtine, 
poiguant,  even  terrible.     When  he  talks  of  inimensi- 
ties  aud  eteruities,  he  ustJS  no  mere  stoek  phrascs  ;  he 
hejus  the  rusbing  of  the  fire-streams,  and  the  roll- 
iug  worlds  overhead,  as  he  hears  the  dark  streams 
tlowiug  under  foot,  In-aring  mau  and  all  his  hnive  ar- 
ruys  down  to  "Tartarus,  and  the  i)ale  kingdonis  of 
Dis."     Wheu  he  speaks  of  bimself  as  feeling  "spec- 
tral,"  he  simply  expr«'sses  1  hat  sense  of  spiritual  h.ne- 
liness,  detaehment,  and   niystery,  out  of  whieh   the 
«leejx-st  jjoetry  of  the  woild  has  come,     T«) judge sueh 
a  mau  by  ordinary   prosaic  staiulanls  is  iuipos.sil»li'. 


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I 


'   ■  5 


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(I  I 


182    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

He  is  of  imugiiiation  all  compact,  and  bis  writiugs 
eau  only  be  rightly  regarded  as  the  work  of  a  poet, 
who  has  the  true  spirit  of  the  seer,  but  is  iucapable 
of  the  orthodox  forms  of  poet  ry. 

It  is  perhaps  eveu  more  esseutial  to  remember  that 
Carlyle  was  a  humourist  of  the  first  order.  On  the  one 
side  of  his  genius  he  approaches  Burns ;  on  the  other, 
Swift.  He  shares  with  Burns  a  rugged  indepeudeuee 
of  nature,  native  pride,  a  sense  of  the  elemeutal  in 
human  life,  a  power  of  poiguant  realism,  a  rare  depth 
and  delicacy  of  sentiment ;  he  shares  jUso  with  him 
the  roUicking,  broad,  not  always  decorous,  humour 
of  the  Olympian  peasant,  raey  of  the  soil.  Carlyle'8 
account  of  Caruot  suddenly  leaving  the  dinner-table 
"driven  by  a  neeessity,  needingof  all  thingspaper," 
is  a  sample  of  what  I  mean  ;  the  humour  of  the  peas- 
ant, half-grim,  half-boisterous,  of  whieh  Burns  >ias 
given  imperishable  examples  in  Tam  o'  Shunter  and 
Holy  Willie^a  Prayer.  But  there  was  also  mingled  in 
Carlyle'8  humour  a  strain  of  something  darker  and 
more  subtle,  akiu  to  the  saturniue  humour  of  Swift. 
He  has  much  of  that  intense  and  scathing  scorn,  that 
sardouic  aud  bitter  penetratiou  whieh  made,  aud  still 
preserves,  the  nanie  of  Swift  as  a  uame  of  terror.  To 
be  sure,  we  do  not  fiud  that  depth  of  sileut  ferocity  in 
Carlyle  whieh  alarms  and  appals  us  iu  Swift.  Swift 
often  thouglit  aud  wrote  like  a  mere  savage,  smarting 
with  the  torture  of  some  lacerating,  eureless  pain. 
He  is  at  heart  a  hater  of  his  kind,  who  spits  in  the 
face  of  its  most  familiar  nobilities,  out  of  mere  exas- 
perated  tiuculence.  There  is  something  abomiuable 
aud  inssuie  iu  the  humour  of  Swift,  with  ouly  a  rare 
toueli  of  redeeming  genial'ty.  But  Carlyle's humour, 
iu  all  it«  «irdoiiif  force,  still  preserves  au  element  of 


\h 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


183 


genial ity.  He  loves  the  grotesque  and  the  absurd  for 
their  owu  sakes.  He  cannot  loug  restrain  hiniself 
IVom  laughter,  good,  wholesome,  volleying  laughter, 
directed  a«  ofteu  against  himself  as  ot liers.  Gifts  of 
insight,  passion,  eloqueuce,  and  imagiuation  he  had 
in  plenty  ;  but  the  greatest  and  rarest  of  all  his  gifts 
was  humour. 

Those  who  knew  Carlyle  most  intimately  have  all 
rccognized  this  wonderful  gift  of  humour  which  was 
his.  It  was  said  of  him  by  his  friends  that  wheu  he 
laughed  it  was  Homerie  laughter — the  laughter  of  the 
whole  soul  and  body  in  complete  abandoumeut  of 
mirth.  This  deep,  wholesome  laughter  reverberates 
through  his  writings.  No  man  is  quicker  to  catch  a 
humorous  point,  or  to  make  it.  A  coUection  of  Car- 
lyle's  best  stories,  phrases,  and  bits  of  personal  de- 
scriptiou,  would  make  one  of  the  most  humorous 
books  in  the  language.  He  makes  sly  fun  of  himself, 
of  his  poverty,  of  the  uncouseious  oddities  of  the  ob- 
scurest  people,  and  equally  of  the  greatest.  His 
raillery  is  iucessant,  his  eye  for  the  comic  of  supreme 
vigilauce.  Of  the  obscenity  of  Swift  there  is  no 
trace ;  it  wiis  not  in  Carlyle  to  cherish  unwholesome 
thoughts.  But  in  the  strange  mingling  of  the  wildest 
fun  with  the  most  penetrating  thought,  of  sardonic 
bitterness  with  the  mellowest  laughter,  of  the  most 
daring  aud  incisive  irony  with  deep  i)hilo8ophy  and 
serious  feeling,  there  is  much  that  recalls  Swift,  and 
suggests  his  finest  qualities.  With  Swift  the  bitter- 
ness closed  down  like  a  cloud,  and  extinguished  the 
humour,  with  that  resulting  tragic  madness  which 
still  mo  ves  the  pity  of  the  world.  With  Carlyle  the 
humour  was  always  in  excess  of  the  bitterness,  and 
supplied  that  element  of  saviug  health  which  kept 


'li. 


fir 


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1S4    THE  MAKERS  OF  EXGLISH  PROSE 

Lis  genius  fresh  and  wholesome  amid  many  perils  uot 
less  real  thau  those  which  destroyed  Swift. 

There  is  one  respeet  iu  which  it  is  especially  neces- 
sary  to  recollect  this  element  of  humour  in  Carlyle 
if  we  are  to  judge  him  correctly,  because  most  of  the' 
harsh  aud  unfair  judgmeuts  piissed  upon  him  have 
directly  resulted  from  its  neglect.     It  must  be  i-emem- 
bered  that  Mrs,  Carlyle  Lad  nmny  qualities  in  com- 
mon  With  her  husband,  and  uot  the  least  of  these  wjis 
a  similar  power  of  irouy  and  humour.     She  was  ac- 
customed  to  speak  of  Carlyle  iu  a  fashion  of  the  freest 
bauter.     Wheu  his  lectures  were  first  announced  iu 
London  there  was  much  speculation  among  his  friends 
whether  he  would  remember  to  begin  orthodoxly  with 
"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  to  which  Mrs.  Carlyle  re- 
plied  that  it  was  far  more  likely  he  would  begin  with 
"Pool  creatures  come  hither  foi  divei-siou."    Her 
satirlc  comment  on  the  success  of  the  business  was 
that  at  last  the  public  had  apparectly  decided  that 
he  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  "  worth  being  kept  alive 
at  a  moderate  rate. "     Is  it  not  concei vable  to  a  person 
of  eveu  moderate  intelligeuce  that  the  conversation  of 
two  pei-sous  so  witty,  keen-tongued,  aud  giveu  to 
satiric  burles(iue  aud  bauter  as  the  Carlyles,  was  in 
no  sense  to  be  tåken  literally  ?    Is  it  not  further  con- 
ceivable  that  many  things  which  look  only  bitter 
when  put  iuto  print,  had  a  very  different  effect  and 
mtention  when  uttered  in  the  gay  repartee  of  familiar 
conversation?    The  fact  is  that  the  Carlyles  habitu- 
ally  addressed  one  another  with  irony.     It  is  no  un- 
common   thiug   between    intimatesTit   is  rather  a 
sign  of  the  security  of  the  affection  which  uuites 
them.     But  if,  by  some  unhappy  accideut,  a  third 
person  who  has  uo  sense  of  humour  heara  this  gay 


m 


»'— 5^, 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


185 


dash  of  kwu  worils,  aud  puts  theiu  «lowu  iu  dull 
priut,  aud  goos  on  to  poiut  out  in  his  dull  fashiou 
that  they  do  not  sound  afifectionate,  aud  are  phrases 
by  uo  means  iu  commou  use  amoug  excelleut  mairied 
persous  of  average  iutellects,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the 
worst  sort  of  mischief  may  readily  be  wrought.  Thus, 
for  example,  wheu  Mrs.  (..'arlyle  lay  ill  with  a  nervous 
trouble  which  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  close  her 
mouth,  Carlyle,  who  knew  uothiug  of  this  peculiarity 
of  her  disease,  stood  solemnly  at  the  foot  of  her  bed 
oue  day,  aud  said :  "Jane,  ye'd  be  iu  a  far  more 
composed  state  of  mind  if  ye'd  close  your  mouth." 
This  story  is  told,  forsooth,  as  au  illustration  of  the 
harshuess  of  Carlyle  to  his  wife.  So  far  was  Mrs. 
Carlyle  from  interpretiug  it  in  auy  such  way,  that 
she  tells  it  herself  with  inimitable  glee,  and  is  keen 
to  describe  its  ludicrous  aspect.  And,  as  in  this 
instauce,  so  in  a  hundred  more  that  might  be  ana- 
lyzcd,  humour  v  as  a  dominant  quality  in  all  the  con- 
versatious  o  Ca.-lyle,  aud  iu  almost  equal  degree  of 
his  wite'8  also  ;  aud  it  is  ouly  by  reeollecting  this 
that  it  is  possible  to  judge  rightly  a  married  life 
which  was  passed  iu  an  atmosphere  and  under  cou- 
ditious  peculiarly  its  own. 

It  is  uecessjiry  to  dwell  on  this  matter  wiih  more 
fulluess  thau  it  deserves,  becau»^  nothing  has  so 
greatly  iujured  Carlyle' s  reputation  and  iufluence  as 
the  reported  iufelicities  of  his  domestic  life.  All 
these  reports  depend  on  the  testimony  of  oue  or  two 
wituesses,  whose  word  is  worthless.  Fortuuately  for 
us  the  real  truth  is  preserved.  not  iu  the  chance  iui- 
pressions  of  friends  or  guests  who  saw  the  Carlyles 
from  the  outside,  but  iu  the  mutual  correspoudeuce 
of  husbaud  aud  wife,  iu  their  journals,  aud  iu  theii- 


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ISG    TilE  MAKEUS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

intimate  c-onfessious  to  otbere  tbrougli  a  loug  ranue 
ol  yoai-«,     Therc  have  bcen  mauy  exquisite  lovt 
letters  writteu  by  literary  meu,  but  tbere  are  none  to 
suriKiss  Cailyle'8  lett^-i-s  to  bis  wile.     No  womau  wa« 
ever  loved  more  deeply  :  bad  not  tbe  love  on  botb 
sides  been  real  aud  vital  tbere  would  have  been  no 
tragedy  to  record.     It  was  simply  because  tbese  two 
weit,  80  much  to  each  other  that  the  sligbte.v  varia- 
tion  of  temperature  in  thcir  aflfectiou  was  so  keenly 
and  lusUintaueously  felt  by  eac-b.    The  real  source 
ol  their  difliculties  was  that  they  were  too  much  alike 
in  temper,  in  methods  of  thought,  and  in  intellectual 
Outlook.     Tbere  was  about  each  that  difficult  Scottish 
reticence  which  sealed  the  lips  aud  forbade  spt^ch 
even  when  the  heart  was  fullest.     The  moment  they 
are  separated    the   love-letters  flow  in  a  continu- 
jus  stream :  love-letters,  as  I  have  said,  which  are 
the  tenderest  in  the  lauguage  so  tar  as  Carlyle  is 
concerned,  aud  which  never  lost  their  warmth  through 
all  the  years  of  a  loug  married  life.     On  paper  the 
heart  opeus  itself ;  fa<je  to  face  they  cannot  speak. 
As  they  recede  from  oue  another  each  grows  iu  lumi- 
nous  charm,  and  faults  ave  forgott.  /,  passion  is  in- 
t«nsihed ;   as  they  come  back  from  these  coustuut 
separations  the  glow  fades  iuto  the  light  of  commou 
day  aud  neither  has  tbe  tavt  nor  grace  to  retain  it. 
i^-i  IS  exquisitely,  even  poiguantly  seusiti^;e,  aud 
gives  and  suflfers  wouuds  which  are  totally  unsus- 
pected  by  the  other.     The  heart  is  always  at  boiliug- 
point;  the  nerves  are  always  quivering;  tbere  are 
uo  cool  gray  reaches  of  mere  pleasjint  comradeship 
betweeu  tbem.     It  is  not  difficult  to  uudei-stand  Ihat 
m  such  a  marriage  there  were  bours  of  tbe  d(^p. 
est    bla^ikness;     but    tbere    weitj    also    seasous    of 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


1S7 


such  light  aud  ladiauce  oa  aie  uever  fouud  iu  duller 
lives. 

But  there  wius  auother  cau.se  ol"  bitkTuess,  whicli 
Carlyie  bas  toucbtd  with  the  utmost  delicacy  and 
insight  when  he  writes  (Aug.  24,  18.%) :  "  Oh,  my 
poor  bairu,  be  uot  faithless,  but  believiug !  Do  not 
fliug  life  av;ay  as  iusupportable,  despicable ;  but  let 
us  work  it  out,  aud  i-est  it  out  together,  like  a  ti'ue 
two,  though  uuder  some  obstructious."  Oue  would 
have  suppased  that  Carlyie  would  have  writteu  '*a 
true  one''^ ;  but  that  he  had  ceased  to  hope  for. 
Mi-s.  Carlyie' 8  uature  was  of  a  stubboruness  as  iuviu- 
cible  as  his  own,  aud  was  as  deeply  independent  aud 
origiual.  It  galled  her  to  shiue  ouly  in  Carlyle's 
light.  She  had  a  literary  faculty,  iu  its  way  as  re- 
markable ?is  her  husband' 8,  aud  she  felt  that  it  was 
obscured  by  his  more  massive  genius.  She  was  uot 
the  sort  of  womau  to  find  her  life  in  the  life  of  auy 
man  ;  she  craved  a  separate  platform.  What  Carlyie 
could  do  to  soften  and  ease  mattei-s  he  did.  He  abso- 
lutely  ref  used  all  iuvitatious  to  gi-eat  houses  where 
his  wife  was  not  as  weleome  as  himself.  He  sineerely 
believed  her  to  be  the  eleverest  and  best  of  women, 
who  deservod  distiuctiou  for  her  owu  sjike.  But  it 
was  all  of  no  avail.  She  allowed  herself  to  beex)me 
frautic  with  jealousy,  and  absolutely  r.ithou*  cause. 
Her  tougue  could  be  as  satiric,  as  undiscriminatiug, 
as  his.  For  the  most  part  she  used  that  potent  in- 
strument, as  Dr.  Garnet  says  (a  little  uujnstly,  I 
think),  "to  narrow  his  sympathies,  edge  his  sjir- 
casms,  intensify  his  negatious,  and  foster  his  disdain 
for  whatever  would  not  run  in  his  own  groove." 
When  it  wiis  turned  against  him  one  can  imagine  the 
result.     That  which  strikes  oue  most  in  reading  the 


m 


^ 


ff . 


I( 


1S8    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLI.«'l  I>R()sE 

«tory  is  tbat  all  the  bitk'rue«8  betweeu  iliem  might 
liave  beeu  avoided  by  a  little  tmt,  a  little  common 
«ense.  But  in  fliese  qualities  each  was  deficient. 
hm^h  was  accustomed  to  see  life  through  the  atmos- 
phere  of  an  imaginatiou  which  exaggerated  into 
grotesqueness  or  tragedy  the  simplest  things.  Each 
telt  the  least  jar  upou  the  nerves  as  a  veritable 
agony.  Life  wa«  uuquestiouably  hard  enough  for 
theni  in  any  case,  but  this  intense  seusitiveness  made 
It  teufold  barder. 

Yet,  when  all  these  admissions  are  made,  weshonld 
take  an  altogether  wrong  impression  if  we  supposed 
that  these  disagreements  were  normal  and  continuous. 
Not  merely  does  Mrs.  Carlyle'8  real  love  for  Carlyle 
come  out  lu  so  many  direet  and  positive  expressions, 
but  It  IS  admirably  refle<ted  in  her  humour.     There 
may  bo  wit,  but  there  cannot  be  humour,  without 
love,  aud  the  way  in  which  she  permits  her  bright 
and  vivacious  humour  to  play  round  him  in  her 
letters  reveals  not  merely  her  genius  but  her  heart 
He  IS  her  "poor  Baoe  of  Genius."     "Betweeu  two 
aud  three  o'clock  is  a  very  placid  hour  with  the 
creature."     "  He  never  complains  of  serious  things, 
but  if  his  finger  is  cut,  one  must  hold  it  and  another 
get  plaister."     On  the  New  Year  morning  of  1863, 
Carlyle  no  soouer  gets  up  than  he  discovere  "that 
his  salvation,  here  aud  hereaftcr,  depeuded  on  having 
iiumediately,  without  a  momenfs  delay,'  a  beg- 
garly  pair  of  old  cloth  boots  that  the  street-sweeper 
would   hardly  have   thauked   him  for,  Mintd  with 
flaimel,  and  new  bound,  and  repaired  geuerally.' " 
Nothmg  in  the  shape  of  illness  ever  alarms  Mr.  C. 
but  that  of  not  eating  one's  regular  meals."    She 
relates  with  positive  glee,  and  in  the  spirit  of  the 


Eff'  {I 

♦ff. 


THOMAS  (  ARLYLE 


18V 


brightest  bauter,  inuuiuerablo  episodes  in  which  '*the 
cresiture"  perlbrms  Kome  eeeentric  part;  aud  oflen 
eiiuugh,  as  Mr.  Moucure  Conway  bas  told  us,  these 
little  pieces  of  iuimitable  farce  were  performed  in 
('arlyle'8  presence,  aud  to  his  own  infinite  amuse- 
ment  Theru  is  always  a  certain  soupfon  of  bitteruess 
iu  the  bauter,  biit  it  is  a  pleasant  and  not  a  corrosive 
bitter.  She  knew  exsvctly  where  the  trouble  was  be- 
tween  them ;  she  knew  that  when  Carlyle  was  ex- 
hausted  with  his  immense  labours,  and  she  worn  to 
the  nerve  with  neuralgia,  sleeplessness,  and  domestic 
worries,  each  was  apt  to  rub  the  other  the  wrong 
way,  and  to  magnify  uniutended  slights  iuto  mis- 
chievius  offences.  She  knew  it^  and  was  soiTy  for 
it,  and  would  have  avoided  it  if  she  could.  "Alas, 
dear ! "  she  writes,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.  You, 
as  well  as  I,  are  too  vivid  ;  to  you  as  well  as  me  haa 
a  skiu  been  given  much  too  thin  for  the  rough  pur- 
poses of  human  life — God  kuows  how  gladly  I  would 
be  sweet-tempered,  and  cheerful-hearted,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thiug,  for  your  single  sake,  if  my  temiler  were 
not  soured  ana  my  heart  saddeued  beyoud  my  power 
to  mend  the»»-."  Bnt  though  she  could  be  neither 
sweet-temp  '  .  cheerful,  she  was  always  brave, 

bright,   ar  ive   to   the   humorous   aspect  of 

things.     t  ^  whole,   one  may  doubt  if  auy 

braver  woman  ever  T  ed :  Joan  of  Are  in  herglit- 
tering  armour  was  no  more  of  a  heroine  than  Mrs. 
Carlyle  in  that  small  dominion  at  Cheyne  Row,  in 
her  endless  strifes  with  servants  aud  mechanics,  her 
resolute  sorties  on  the  wolf  of  poverty  that  for  so 
many  years  growled  at  the  door,  and  her  desperate 
iugenuities  to  make  the  path  easy  for  her  poor  "  Babe 
of  Genius." 


i". 

i: 
I 


if 


I 


liij 


15)0    THK  MAKKRS  OF  ENGLISH  IMIOSK 

Tlie  actual  amouut  of  physical  aud  nwv.ms  Kuft-.r 
ing  which  Mrs.  Carlyle  eudured  during  tlu-s*.  y.ai-N 
and  especially  toward-s  the  imhI,  exctttls  the  total 
of  the  wcrst  agony  of  thoHe  we  call  martyrH.     What 
smlder  or  more  poignant  cries  have  ever  l)eeu  wruug 
from  a  human  spirit  thau  thest^t    "Oh,  my  owu 
darling,  God  have  pity  on  us  I    Ever  sinee  the  day 
after  you  left,  whatever  tiatteriug  aceouuts  may  have 
beeu  sent  you,  the  truth  is  I  have  beeu  writched— 
perfertly  wr«tched  day  and  night,  with  that  horrible 
malady.    80,  God  help  me,  for  on  earth  is  no  help  ! " 
"Oh,  my  dear,  I  thiuk  how  near  my  mother  I  am  1" 
[8he  was  theu  stayiug  at  Holm  liill,  uot  far  from 
where  her  mother  waa  buried.]     ''  How  still  I  should 
be,  laid  beaide  her !    But  I  wish  to  live  for  you,  i/ 
only  I  could  live  out  of  torment.     .     .     .     I    t^m 
already  to  belong  to  the  passed-away  as  much  us  to 
the  present ;  nay,  more.     God  bless  you  on  your  soli- 
tary  way !    .    .     .    Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  verv  weary. 
My  agony  has  lasted  long.    I  am  tempted  to  take  a 
long  cry  over  myself-and  uo  good  will  come  of 
that."    She  expresses  her  sorrow  for  "the  terrible, 
half-insane  sensitiveness  which  drove  me  on  to  both- 
ering  you.    Oh,   if  God  would  ouly  lift  my  trouble 
off  me  80  far  that  I  could  bear  it  all  iu  sileuce, 
anduotaddtothetroublesofothers!    .    .    .     lam 
very  stupid  aud  low.    God  can  raise  me  up  agaiu  • 
but  will  He  f    My  dear,  when   I  have  been  giviug 
directions  about  the  house,  theu  a  fi-eling  like  a  great 
black  wave  will  roll  over  my  breast,  and  I  ssiy  to 
myself,  whatever  paius  be  tåken  to  gratify  me,  shall 
I  ever  more  have  a  day  of  eiuse,  of  painlessness,  or  a 
mght  of  sweet  n-st  in  that  house,  or  in  auy  othei- 
house,  but  the  dark  uarrow  oue  where  I  shall  arrive 


it 


THOMAS  CAKLYLE 


ISU 


at  last  f    Oil,  d»"»  •!  you  caiinot  ht-lp  mo,  though  you 
would  !    NolMxly  can  help  me  I    Ouly  OoU :  aml  ca» 
I  wouder  if  (Jod  toke  uo  '«ecd  of  me,  whcn  I  have  all 
my  life  takeii  ho  littlo  heed  of  Himt"     Nor  are  the 
repliea  of  Carlyle  less  pathetic.     "My  thoughts," 
says  he,  "are  a  prayer  for  my  poor  Mttle  life-partner, 
who  has  fallen  lame  beside  me,  tuter  tra'/elling  ho 
maiiy  steep   and   thomy  ways.     ...     My  poor 
Jittle  friend  of  friends !  sho  haa  fallen  wouuded  to 
the  ground,  and  I  am  alone — aloue  I "     lu  her  worst 
ugouics  she  turna  to  hor  husband  always  with  cries 
for  consolation,  and  says :    "I  cannot  tell  how  gentle 
and  goo«l  Mr.  Carlyle  is.     Ile  is  busy  as  ever,  but  he 
8tudii«  my  comfort  and  peaco  as  he  never  did  beforo." 
At  the  sjime  time  he  is  taking  sorrowful  note  of  the 
fact  that  she  is  more  careful  of  his  comforts  thau  in 
her  busiost  days  of  health.     Is  there  anywhere  in 
literature  a  more  path«!tic  page  than  this  t    Can  there 
be  any  ciearer  testimony  to  the  reality  and  depth  of 
that  love  wliich  bound  these  two  sorely-tried  sonls 
together,  or  to  the  error  of  the  general  jissumptiou 
that  their  marriage  was  a  foolish  and  unhappy  onet 
Pagos  might  bo  writteu  on  such  a  thenie,  but  all 
Miat  can  bo  sjiid  profil      y  is  sjiid  when  we  are  a.sked 
to  reeollect  the  extrenic  .uid  almost  morbid  sensitivo- 
ness  of  both  Carlyle  and  his  wifo,   their  common 
love  of  irony,  their  common  practioe  of  humorous 
exaggeitition  on  all  subjeots,  but  ospecially  those  in 
which  their  own  personalitios  woro  involved,  and  the 
strain  upon  nerve  and  temper  which  wjw  imposed 
by  years  of  unintermittont  labour  and  vai  n  st  rugg  le. 
One  thing  is  at  lesust  (^ear,  that  in  their  more  serious 
misniidei-standings  tliey  were  v  ither  in  thouglit  nor 
deed  unfaithful  to  oue  another,  and  ne\er  ceased  to 


il 


i 


f--- 


i 


I 


H 


'I  A-s 


m    TIIK  MAKKIIS  OF  EXCJLISII  TFfOSK 

love  wM'h  otlMT  With  alMorhing  poBsion.    Of  tli«  dull 
triicuIiMit,  wlflHh  brutJility  of  teniptT  attributed  to 
Carlyle  by  «omo  writeiM,  Iw  wtw  u(t«rly  ir-npable, 
for  he  was  the  moHt  umguuniraoiw  of  lueu.     »*  I  røuld 
not  help,"  wyH  EnuTHon,  ou  recallinR  hin  memomhle 
vi8it  to  Carlyle  at  Cmigeuputtock,  •'congratulatiug 
him  upon  hiH  tmwiire  of  u  wife."    othere  who  visited 
the  CurlyleH  during  thJH  same  period,  when  life  wjw 
hardest  with  them,   have   bonie  witnew  that  they 
lived  With  one  another  upon  dtlightful  terms.    8un'Iy 
if  some  bitter  words  esrapiKl  them  in  the  long  Mtruggle, 
It  18  a  matter  uct  for  wonder  but  forgi  eness;  surely 
also    some   allowance  mn  be  made  for  a  man  of 
genius  staggering  beneath  a  burden  ulmost  too  groat 
to  be  bonie,  an»'  for  a  woman  broken  iii  health  by  a 
most   distressing     lalady,   each  of  them,   m  Mra 
Carlyle  confessed,    "too  vivid,"  and   "with  a  skin 
mueh  too  thin  for  the  rough  purposes  of  hunmn  life." 
^Vhen  the  unwholesome  love  of  seandal,  aroused  by 
the  passion  which  mean  uatures  find  iu  discovering 
the  fiinlts  of  the  great,  subsides,  no  doubt  the  true 
facts  will   be  seen   in  their  right   i)erspective,   aud 
blame  will  be  exchanged  for  pity,  censure  for  a  com- 
prehending  charity. 

In  Ihe  meaiitime  we  may  i-emember  that  those 
who  knew  Carlyle  the  best  speak  most  warmly  of 
the  magnaiiiniity  of  his  chanicter. 

The  impn'ssion  which  Carlyle  made  upon  his 
contemporaries  is  tlie  best  comraent  on  his  character. 
Tiie  most  serious  m«ni  of  his  time  /,<'0{;nized  him 
as  a  modern  John  the  Baptist,  an  '  ,  on  a  worldly 
ecch-sisistic  like  Bishop  WillxM-forcf»  descr.lx-d  him  as 
''a  most  eminently  religions  man."  Charles  Kiiigsley 
huuoured    him  as  his  master,   aud  has  drawn  au 


Uk_«;i^ 


TIIOMAH  CA"LYLE 


103 


lulmirabh-  iiortruit  of  him  iw  Sauiuloi-M  Mackayo  in 
Atlon  Lwkt;  of  wUich  Umrii»liou  Curlylo  chura(  .  r- 
i^ticully  tiuid  tliut  it  waa»  ♦'  womlerfully  uplendid  uiui 
cohereut  piece  of  fckotch  bravum."     Hi»  giwpfl  in 
coiituineU  in  tUtrtor  Jiemrtiu,  of  which  it  1i>m  btwn 
I)ertinently  Haid  tliat  it  "  wili  be  read  m  a  go8i)e!  or 
not  at  all."    A  talm  and  penetrating  eritic  like 
Jamt*  Martineau  wituesHcs  to  the  oame  overwhelm- 
ing  religions  force  in  Carlylo  wlieu  he  speaks  of  his 
writiugs  as  a  "  peutecostal  power  on  the  sentimenta 
of  Englishmen."     On  the  truly  poetic  nature  of  his 
genius  all  the  great  eritics  have  long  ago  agret^l. 
How  could  it  be  othcrwise  in  i    'ard  of  writings 
whoso  every  second  paragniph  kinUles  into  the  finest 
imaginative  fl  ro  f    His  power  of  imagery  is  Dau- 
tes(iue ;  his  muge  is  truly  epic ;  the  \  ery  phnwes 
of  his  diaries  and  letters  are  steeped  in  poetrj-,  a» 
wheu  he  speaks  of  John  Sterling's  last   "verses, 
written  for  myself  aloue,  as  in  star-fire  and  immortal 
teara"    The  testinionies  to  his  power  of  humour,  so 
far  as  his  conversatious  are  concernod,  are  muchtoo 
numerous  for  rtH-apitulation.     His  own  definiti    .  of 
humour  wjis  "a  genial  sympathy   with  the  under 
sule"  ;  and  this  vivid  sympathy  expressed  itself  in 
his  use  of  ludicrous  and  extraordinary  metaphor, 
and  in  his  "delicatesenseofabsurdity."     ttj^  most 
volcanic  denunciations  usually  ended  in  b    '  ugh, 
the    heartiest    in  the  world,   at  his  own  ferocity! 
"Those  who  have  not  heard  that  laugh,"  says  Mr. 
Allingham,    "will  never  know  what  Carlyle's  talk 
was."     Prophet,  poet,  and  humourist— so  stands  Car- 
lyle  before  the  world,  a  man  roughly  hewn  out  of  the 
primeval  earth,  conceived  in  the  wonib  of  labour  and 
hardship,  yet  touched  with  immortal  fire,  fashioned 


u 


u 


I      r" 


ll>4    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

in  the  rarest  inould  of  greatuess,  tenderuess,  aiul 
heroism  ;  clearly  the  most  massive,  impressive,  and 
fascinating  figure  in  nineteenth-century  literature. 
It  remaina  for  us  to  see  w  hat  his  writings  teach  us, 
and  what  is  taught  yet  more  forcibly  by  the  epic 
of  his  life. 


'  \ 


W 


xin 

CARLYLE'S  TEACHING 

MAURICE  once  said  of  himself  that  he  only 
had  three  or  four  thiugs  to  say,  aud  he 
felt  it  neeessary  to  go  ou  sayiug  them  over 
and  over  agaiu.  The  same  eriticisin  might  be  passed 
upon  Carlyle.  No  great  writer  has  repeated  himself 
With  siich  freedom  and  emphasis.  It  therefore  be- 
comes  a  compamtively  easy  task  to  discern  the  main 
lin<'s  of  his  teachiug.  In  whatever  he  wrote,  whether 
history  or  essay,  private  journals  or  biography,  these 
main  lines  of  thought  perpetually  appear,  like  aurif- 
erous  strata,  pushing  themselves  up  through the soil, 
and  indicating  the  nature  of  his  thinking. 

The  remark  of  Bishop  Wilberforce,  that  Carlyle  was 
au  eminently  religions  man,  gives  us  the  true  start- 
ing-point  for  any  honest  understanding  of  his  teach- 
ing.    Mr.  Froude  has  spokeu  of  him  as  a  Calviuist 
without  the  theology,  and  in  the  main  this  is  true. 
Every    one  knows  the  striking  passage  in  which 
Carlyle  tells  us  how  Irviug  drew  from  him  theconfes- 
sion  that  he  was  no  longer  able  to  see  the  trnths  of  re- 
ligion from  the  orthodox  standpoint.     Upon  analysis 
this  will  be  found  to  m«'an  that  he  had  definitely  re- 
jected  the  supernatural.     He  onee  said  that  nothing 
conid  be  more  certain  than  that  the  miracles,  as  they 
were  related  in  the  Gospels,  did  not  and  eould  not 
have  occurred.     For  the  Chureh,  as  such,  he  had  small 
respect,  because  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  mainly  given 

195 


iij 

'r 

li 


w 


If 


■1 

i' 


ri- 


\  »> 


m 


19(}    THE  xMAKEItS  OF  ENCJLISH  PilOSE 

over  to  a  hoUow  recitatiou  of  foriuulæ  which  it  lisul 
really  ceased  to  believe,  aud  which  uo  ratioual  niau 
ever  would  believe  agaiu  with  geuuiue  siucerity.  He 
regarded  the  eflforts  of  Maurice  to  fraiue  a  ratioual  basis 
for  belief  in  the  superuatural  as  the  eudless  spiuuiug 
of  a  rope  of  saud.  He  ouce  poiutcd  to  Deau  Stauley, 
aud  said  with  cuttiug  sarcasm,  "  There  goes  Stanley 
kuockiug  holes  in  the  bottom  of  the  Church  of 
Eugland. ' '  But,  on  the  other  haud,  he  had  more  than 
sarcasm,  he  had  an  absolutely  sjivage  contempt  for 
auything  approaching  atheism.  Of  Mill  he  spokc 
with  bitter  aud  habitual  ridicule,  although  he  recog- 
nized  in  him  the  finest  friendliness  of  nature ;  of  Dar- 
win "  as  though  he  had  robbed  him."  He  dismissed 
the  discoveries  of  Darwin  with  the  scathiug  phrase, 
"Gorilla  damnificatious  of  humauity."  Hespeaks 
of  his  "whole  softened  heart"  goiug  out  anew  in 
childlike  utterance  of  the  great  prayer,  ''  Our  Father, 
who  art  in  heaveu."  While  he  cannot  believe  the 
Gospel  miracles,  he  nevertheless  teaches  that  the 
world  itself  is  nothing  less  thau  oue  vast  standing 
miracle.  No  saint  or  prophet  ever  spoke  with  a  surer 
faith  of  that  great  Yonder,  to  which  he  believes  his 
father  is  guthered,  and  where  he  aud  all  whom  he 
loves  will  some  day  be  reunited  iu  somenew  iutimacy 
of  iufinite  love.  He  scruples  even  to  use  the  uame  of 
God,  inventiug  paraphrases  of  it  because  he  feels  it  is 
too  great  and  holy  for  common  utterance.  A  pro- 
found  belief  iu  Provideuce  goverued  all  his  esti- 
mates  of  life,  aud  prayer  was  with  him  a  habit  and  an 
urgeut  duty,  since  it  wjis  the  liftiug  up  of  the  heart 
to  the  Iufinite  above,  which  auswered  to  the  Iufinite 
within. 
Now  nothing  can  well  appear  more  contradictory 


carlylf;s  teachtno 


107 


Ihau  Ihese  .sfatt^ments,  and  they  cjin  only  be  harinon- 
izwl  hy  the  lecol  leet  ion  of  oue  liu-t— vi/.,  that  in  Car- 
lyle  emotiou  outran  retusou,  ainl  what  was  impossible 
to  the  pure  iutelleot  was  constantly  aeeeptetl  ou  the 
testiniouy  of  his  spiritual   iiituitious.     The  uierely 
theological  eouclusious  of  Calvin  he  absolutely  re- 
jeeted,  but  the  esseuce  of  Calviuism  mn  like  a  subtle 
spirit,  through  his  whole  nature.     What  he  really 
ai  med  at  was  to  show  liiat  religion  rested  on  no  exter- 
ual  evideuces  at  all,  but  on  the  indubitable  intuitious 
of  the  human  soul.     He  would  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  set  about  proving  that  there  was  a  God : 
he  would  have  agreed  with  Addison  that  the  man  who 
said  that  he  did  not  believe  iu  a  God  was  an  impu- 
deut  liar  and  knew  it.     He  was  angrily  contemptuous 
of  Renau'8  Life  of  Jesus,  although  Kenan  probably 
sjiid  nothing  more  thau  he  himself  believed  ;  but  he 
felt  a  reverence  for  Christ  which  revolted  from  Renau's 
method  of  statemeut,  aud  he  said  that  his  life  of 
Christ  was  somethiug  that  never  ought  to  be  written 
at  all.     Thus  it  beeomes  more  necessary  with  Carlyle 
thau  with  auy  other  writer  of  our  time  to  distinguish 
sharply  between  his  opinions  and  his  couvictions.     In 
point  of  fact  he  wrote  on  religion,  as  ou  all  other  sub- 
ject«,  from  the  standpoiut  of  tlu^  poet  rather  than  of 
the  scholar  or  the  philosopher.     Driven  back  upon 
his  defences,  Calvin  himself  could  not  have  spoken 
with  more  lucidity  and  passion  of  his  primary  relig- 
ions beliefs  than  Carlyle.     The  Shorter  Catechism 
had  pjissed  into  the  very  blood  and  marrow  of  his  na- 
ture.    In  the  bare  house  at  Ecclefechau  the  CotUir's 
Sdtnrday  Niyht  wsis  a  veritable  fact,  and  from  the 
Puritan  numld  of  his  childhood  he  never  esoai)ed. 
Ile  never  wished  to  do  so.     He  sought  rather  to  dis- 


W\ 


•  i- i 

i'i'  -I 


tf     i 


it 


I  ;i 


19S    TITE  AFAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

til  the  fiiuT  essonces  of  Calviiiism  jitVcsh,  aud  in  a 
gi-eat  uiea-sui-e  lie  did  so.  His  real  ciwd  was  Calviu- 
ism  shorn  of  its  logic  and  interpenetratid  with  emo- 
tion.  He  trauslatt^d  it  iuto  poetry  aud  touched  it 
with  the  iiidesccnt  glow  and colour  of  trauscendental- 
ism.  He  separaled  what  he  cousidered  its  accidental 
aud  formal  elemeuts  from  the  esseutial,  aud  to  those 
esseutial  and  imperishable  elemeuts  he  gave  a  new 
authority  and  curreucy  by  the  impact  of  his  owu  as- 
touishing  genius. 

What  were  these  elements?  As  restated  by  Car- 
lyle,  they  were  belief  in  God  as  the  certaiuty  of  cer- 
tiuuties  ou  which  all  human  life  is  built :  of  a  God 
working  in  history,  and  revealing  Himself  in  no  mere 
coUectiou  of  books,  but  in  all  events :  of  all  work  as 
perennially  noble  and  beautiful,  because  it  was  God's 
appoiuted  task  :  of  duty  aud  morality  as  the  only  real 
prerogatives  of  man  :  of  siucerity  and  honesty  as  the 
chief  achievemeuts  which  God  demanded  of  man,  aud 
the  irreducible  miuimum  of  auy  houourable  hunuiu 
life.  Th(!  world  was  no  mere  mill,  turning  its  wheels 
mechanically  in  the  Time-floods,  without  auy  Over- 
seer, but  a  Divinely  appoiuted  world,  aud  to  know 
Ihat  was  the  chief  element  of  all  kuowlcdge.  Man 
Wiis  not  a  mechanism  but  au  orgauism  ;  not  a  "pat- 
ent digestiug  machine,"  but  a  diviuely-fiishioned 
creature.  The  everlastiug  Yea  was  to  admit  this ;  the 
cvcrlastiug  No  to  deny  it.  "On  the  roariug  billows 
of  Time  thou  art  not  eugulfed,  but  boine  aloft  iuto 
the  azure  of  Eteruity.  Ix)ve  not  pleasure  :  love  God. 
This  is  the  everhistiug  Yea,  wherein  all  contradiction 
is  solved,  wherein  whoso  walks  aud  works  it  is  well 
with  him.  Even  to  the  greatcst  that  hius  felt  such 
momeut,  is  it  not  miraculous  aud  God-aunounciug, 


CAKLYLE'S  TEACTIING 


199 


even  hh  uii(l<;r  siiiipler  figures  to  the  simplest  ainl  the 
lesust!  The  iiiad  piimeval  Discort!  is  luished  ;  th«' 
rudely  jumbled  conflicting  elements  bind  Ihomsehes 
into  separate  tirmameuts;  deep,  sileut  rock-founda- 
tious  are  built  beiieath  ;  and  the  skyey  vault  with  its 
everlasting  luminaries  above;  iustead  of  i  dark, 
wastelul  Chaos,  we  have  a  bloomiug,  fertile,  heaveu- 
eucompjisst^  World." 

To  believe  this,  aceording  to  Carlyle,  iiiiplied  a 
spedes  of  convei-sion,  aud  of  his  own  couversiou, 
wheu  these  things  suddo«ily  became  real  to  him  tme 
uight  in  Leith  Walk,  he  has  left  as  cin  imstautial  au 
aecouut  as  we  have  of  the  cou version  of  Luther  or 
Wesley.     What  it  implies  is,   in  eflfect,   a  eertaiu 
i-econciliatiou  to  God,  to  the  world,  and  to  one's  seif. 
Carlyle's  iutense  sympathy  with  Croinwell,  whieh  has 
made  him  his  best  biographer,  arises  from  the  faet 
that    he   fouud   iu   Cromwell  an  echo  of   his  owu 
thoughts,   and  a  picture    of  his  owu  experiences. 
Wheu    Cromwell    said,    "What  are  all  events  but 
God  working?"  we  readily  feel  that  the  very  ac- 
cent of  the  thought  is  Carlyle'8.     Wlieu  Cromwell 
steadies  his  trembling  hand  aud  says,  "Agovernor 
should  die  working,"  he  expressea  Carlyle' s  gospel 
of  work  in  its  finest  form.     Wheu  Cromwell  talks  of 
dwelling  iu  Kedar  and  Meshech  where  no  water  is, 
and  of  passing  through  strange  hours  of  blarkness 
and  darkness,  he  is  talking  entire!y  after  the  mauner 
of  Carlyle.     After    that    memorable    experience   iu 
Leith  Walk,  Carlyle  Vells  us,  his  raood  was  no  longer 
despondeuce,  but  valorcus  defiance.     The  world,  at 
least,  had  no  further  power  to  hurt  or  hinder  him : 
is  he  not  uow  sure  that  he  lives  and  moves  at  the  bid- 
ding    of  a  Divine    Taskmasterf    Loiig  afterwaids, 


1    -'^ 


-I  -1: 


I    li 


(I 

'Il 


li' 


w  .'i 


.     !; 


•'  P 


200    THE  MAKERIS  OF  ENGLlSIi  PllOiSE 

whcn  his  iirst  (liult   of  the  Fictuh  iUvolutioii  \va.s 
buruotl,  this  failh  iu  the  mysteiy  oi'  God'»  ordeiintj 
was  bis  ouo  source  of  solace.     "  It  is  us  if  my  iuvisi- 
ble  Sehoolmjuster  had  tom  u-y  topy-book  wheu  1 
shovicd  it,  aud  said,   'Ko,  boy!  ti.<ou  must  write  it 
better.'     What  can  I,  sorrowiug,  do  but  obey— obey 
aud  thiuk  it  the  best  f    To  woik  agaiu  ;  aud  oh  !  may 
(Jod  be  With  me,  for  this  earth  is  uot  frieudly.     Ou  ir 
His  uame  !     I  was  the  ueai-est  beiug  happy  sometimes 
these  last  fe  w  days  that  I  have  beeu  for  mouths !  " 
To  be  r"couciled  to  himself  meaut  iu  such  circum- 
staucea  that  he  was  williug  to  work,  eveu  if  uothiug 
came  of  his  vvork,  siuce  work  iu  itself  was  the  ap- 
poiuted  duty  aud  true  glory  of  mau.     "  Produce ! 
Produce !  were  it  but  the  pitifullest  iuiiuitesimal  frac- 
tiou  of  a  produet,  produce  it,  iu  God's  uame.     'Tis 
the  utmost  thou  hast  in  thee  :  out  with  it,  theu.     Up  ! 
up  !    AVhatsoever  thy  haud  fiudeth  to  do,  do  it  with 
thy  whole  might.     Work  while  it  is  ciUled  to-day ; 
for  the  Xight  cometh  whereiu  uo  mau  eau  work." 
Not,  perhaps,  a  hopeful  or  a  eheeriug  creed  this ;  but 
at  all  eveuts  a  streuuous  auJ  a  uoble  oue.     Such  as  it 
is,  it  coutains  the  substauce  of  Carlyle's  coutributiou 
to  religions  thought.     And  we  may  protitably  re- 
member  that  tlie  true  eUect  and  graudeur  of  a  creed 
is  not  to  be  measured  by  its  dimensious  but  by  its  iu- 
tensity.     We  do  not  need  large  creeds  for  high  lives, 
but  we  do  need  deep  convictions,  and  Carlyle  bdieved 
his  creed  and  lived  by  it  Avith  pa  ^sionate  siucerity. 

I  have  said  that  this  is  not  a  hopeful  creed,  nor  was 
Carlyle  ever  a  hoi)eful  prophet.  He  called  himself  a 
Kadical  of  the  qu.-t  order,  but  he  had  none  of  the 
hopefulness  of  Kadicalisin,  nor  was  it  in  him  to  be 
quiet  ou  aiiy  subject  tliat  intensted  him.     Then?  is  a 


i!'*' 


'It  I 


li     » 


Jl' 


CAULYLE'S  TEACJIIXG  201 

good  deal  of  tiuth  iu  the  ii-oiiicul  n-mark  of  l^Iai  rie»., 
that  Carlyle  believed  iu  a  (iod  wln)  Icft  oirg()v«'iuiii{^r 
tlie  world  at  the  death  of  Oliver  Crouiwell.     He  s;iw 
uothing  iu  uiodern  progress  that  Just ified  its  boasts, 
aud  It  must  be  owued  that  his  social  foreetusts  Iiave 
beeu  all  t*>u  amply  fuliilled.     Tlie  hopefuluess  of 
Kniersou    positively  augered    him.     He    took    hin 
rouud  London,  showiug  him  the  v.orst  of  its  uuiuy 
abomiuations,  asking  after  each  had  beeu  duly  oJJur- 
gatet',  "Do  you  believe  iu  the  devil  uowl"    His 
very  reverence  for  work  led  him  to  reverence  auy 
sort  of  great  worker,  irrespective  of  tae  positiv  e  re- 
sults  of  his  energy.     It  led  him  iuto  the  mistake  of 
glorifyiug  Frederick  the  Great.     Jt  led  him  iuto  tte 
still  greater  error  cf  defendiug  Dr.  Fi-aucia,  the  Die- 
tator  of  Paraguay.     So  far  as  the  fust  artiele  of  the 
Kadical  faith  goes,  a  belief  iu  the  people  aud  the  wis- 
dom  of  majorities,  he  was  a  hardeued  uubeliever. 
Yet  it  wa.s  uot  because  he  did  not  sympathize  with 
the  people.     His  rapid  aud  brilliaut  etchiugs  of  la- 
bouriug  folk-the  poor  diudge,   :sou     f  a  race  of 
drudges,  with  bowed  shoulders  aud  broken  fii..^er- 
nails,  whom  he  sees  in  Bruges;  the  loor  Irishmau 
lu  Piccadilly,  blue-visaged,  thatched  iu  rags,  a  blue 
child  on  each  arm  :   hunger-driven,  wide-mouthed, 
seekiug  whom  he  may  devour"-are  full  of  teuder- 
uess  aud  compassion.     He  never  forgot  that  he  him- 
8.'If  was  the  child  of  labouring  folk,  aud  he  spoke  for 
his  order.     But  he  had  no  miud  to  haud  over  th" 
government  of  the  nation  to  the  drudges.     His  theory 
of  governmeut  was  government  by  great  men,   by 
vvhich  he  meaut  stroug  men.     History  was  to  him  at 
bottom  the  story  of  great  men  at  woik.     He  believed 
Ul  individualism  to  the  hist  degree  wheu  government 


'  * 


I  fl 


:|l 


n 


■  1  ^? 


i     ■  rl-å 


202    TIIK  MAKEKS  OF  EMJLJSH  PKOSK 

wjus  ill  «iiicstioii.  If  Sl  luaii  Inul  the  power  t«  luK",  it 
w;ls  liis  liglit  to  bf  il  luhr,  aiKi  those  who  hud  not  [liv 
power  8houid  Ihj  ghul  and  tliankJul  to  obey.  Jf  they 
W(.uld  not  olH^y,  tlie  one  remedy  wiw  the  AtiimlwMiie 
''whitr  of  giape-sliot,"  or  siouiethiug  akiu  to  it,  suid 
iu  this  case  Might  wjia  the  diviucst  Kight. 

Y«t  this  is  very  tar  from  l)eiiig  all  Carlyle'8  po- 
litieal  gospel.     He  advocated   eiuigratiou,   and   hy 
systematic  einigmtion  a  diuily   formulated  sehenie 
of  imperial  federatiou,  loug  before  tliese  thiugs  wei« 
discussed  by  politieiaus.     His  demuuiatious  of  com- 
petitiou  really  paved  the  wa>  for  the  great  sehemes 
of  coOperatiou  which  have  siuce  beeu  eflected.     More 
or  less  he  »)elieved  that  the  great  remedy  for  poverty 
was  to  get  back  to  the  laud.     ' '  Captaius  of  iudustry ' ' 
was  his  suggestive  phrase,  by  which  he  iudicuted  the 
oigauization  of  labour.     His  appeals   to  the  aiis- 
tocracy  to  be  a  true  aristocracy  of  work,  alive  to  their 
social  duties,  aud  justly  powerful  because  uobly  wise, 
were  certaiuly  not  unregarded.     Much  that  we  call 
soeialism  to-day  had  its  real  origiu  iu  the  writiugs 
of  Carlyle.     The  couditiou  of  the  people  was  with 
hiiu  a  buruing  aud  tremeudous  questiou.     It  was  uot 
withiu  the  range  of  his  powers  to  suggest  much  iu  the 
way  of  practical  measures ;  his  genius  was  uot  cou- 
structive.     The  function  of  the  prophet  has  always 
beeu    rather    to  expose  au  evil  thau  to  provide  a 
reuu'dy.     It  must  be  admitted  that  Curlyle's  denuu- 
ciations  are    more    convinting    thau   his  remedies, 
liut  they  had  one  effect  whose  magnitude  is  iumieas- 
urabie :  they  roused  the  minds  of  all  tliinkiug  men 
throughout  England  to  the  real  state  of  aflairs,  aud 
civated  Ule  new  paths  of  social  reform.     The  blazing 
vehemeiice  of  his  style,  the  iuUuise  vividiiess  of  his 


(;AULY]Æ'S  TKAClIlNd 


203 


pictums,  touhl  not  fuil  to  aimst  atliMiliou.  Ile  shat- 
U-vva  loiever  the  hyiMxiisy  thut  wejit  by  the  uame 
of  "  uuexaiupU-d  pioMiwiity."  He  foiretl  men  to 
til' uk.  lu  Uepictiug  the  social  England  of  Lis  time 
he  "sphwhed"  great  mjussses  of  colour  on  his  eanvsus, 
as  he  did  in  desttribiug  the  Fivnch  Itevolution,  aud 
all  eainest  men  were  justouished  iuto  atteutiou.  The 
msult  hius  been,  oa  Dr.  Garnet  puts  it,  that  "opinion 
hjis  iu  the  maiu  followed  the  track  poiuted  out  by 
Cailyle'8  luminous  finger  "  ;  and  a  completcr  te-sti- 
mony  to  his  political  prescieuce  could  not  be  de- 
sircd. 

Much  must  be  allowcd  for  Carlyle'8  love  of  paradox 
iu  the  statement  of  these  truths.     Fundamentally,  it 
is  the  exaggeratiou  of  the  humourist  who,  iu  his  ha- 
bi^nal  ironies,  is  half-conscious  that  he  caricaturea 
himself  as  well  as  his  opponents.    No  doubt  it  wouhl 
have  beeu  very  helpful  to  persons  of  slow  understaud- 
ing  if  he  bad  always  spokeu  with  logicul  gravity,  aud 
liad  strietly  defined  and  stated  what  he  meano.     But 
then  he  would  have  been  aa  dull  as  they.    The  half- 
dozen  truths  which  he  had  to  teach  are  as  commou 
as  copy-book  headliues,  and  jis  depressing.     Put  iu 
plaiu   and   exact    English,   they  are  things  which 
everybody  kuows,  aud  is  willing  to  accept  theoret- 
ically,  however  little  he  is  disposed  to  aet  upon  theni. 
The  supreme  merit  of  Carlyle  is  that  he  sets  these 
commouplaces  on  fire  by  his  vehemenee,  aud  vitalizes 
them  by  his  humour.     It  is  the  humour  of  Carlyle 
thtit  keeps  bis  writings  fresh.     His  uicknames  stick 
when  his  argument  is  forgotten.     In  his  hands  po- 
litical economy  itself  eeases  to  be  a  dismal  science, 
and  becomes  a  manual  of  witty  metaphoi-s.    This  is 
so  great  au  achievement  that  we  may  i-eadily  forgive 


ri 


I  I 


tusaa 


M 


i  i 


H      I 


2U4    THE  MAKKKS  OF  EN(iLlSII  IMiOSK 

Lis  frwjufut  iii('<>ii.s(>(|ii<>iK'c>,  and  \,bat  is  worw»,  Iiig 
uiilaiructM  aud  cxaggciatiou  of  Htutemeiit. 

To  tluH  it  may  b<'  added  that,  wbeii  Caj-lyl*»  waH 
couvincvd  of  auy  unfairuoNH  of  statcmeiit,  or  uniH>cd- 
ful  acerbity  of  temper,  uo  oue  showed  a  quieker  or 
uobler   magnauimity    in    apology.     His    bark    was 
always  wonse  than  his  bite.     We  read  his  ferocious 
attaeks  on  opponents,  or  his^satiric  descriptions  of 
persons,  in  cool  blood,  and  do  not  hear  that  genial 
laugh  which  wound  u])  many  similar  vituperations 
in  his  conversation,  and  drew  their  sting.     For  all 
his  angry  counsel  to  whip  drones  and  shoot  rognes, 
Mrs.  Carlyle  tells  us  that  when  she  read  aloud  to 
him  the  a*!count  of  the  execution  of  the  assassin 
Buranelli,  "tears  rolled  down  Carlyle'8  cheeks— he 
who  talks  of  shooting  Irishmen  who  will  not  work." 
He  was  lamentably  wrong  in  his  judgment  of  the 
great  issues  involved  in  the  American  Civil  War; 
but  when,  yeara  afterwards.  Mrs.   Charles  Lowell, 
whose  son  had  fallen  in  the  war,  visited  him,  he 
took  her  by  her  hand,  and  said,  even  with  tears,  "I 
doubt  I  have  been  mistaken."     Amid  all  his  bright 
derision  and  savage  mockery,  uo  one  can  fail  to  see 
that  he  sought  for  and  loved  truth  alone.    That  was, 
and  will  always  remain,  his  crowning  honour.     He 
sought  it,  aud  was  loyal  to  it,  when  he  turned  sadly 
from  the  ministry  for  which  he  was  dcstiued,  when 
he  went  into  the  wilderuess  of  Craigenputtock,  when 
he  was  couteut  to  be  ostracized  by  Jeffrey  aud  his 
clique  as  au  iutellectual  Ishmael,  when  he  finally 
came  to  London  aud  took  up  his  real  life-work,  cou- 
teut to  starve,  if  ueeds  be,  but  resolved  to  speak  or 
write  uo  woitl  that  sliould  wiu  him  bread  or  fåme  at 
the  price  of  insiucerity.     And  in  the  hearts  of  thou- 


CAKI.YLE'8  TKACmXd 


205 


sands  of  men,  and  among  tlieni  tho  bt-ht  and  ablest 
of  his  time,  he  lK'got  the  same  tempor.  Kiugsley, 
Sterling,  Ruskin,  and  a  score  of  othei-s  gathered  to 
his  standard,  not  to  namu  the  throng  of  humbler 
disciples  in  every  walk  of  life  who  caught  the  in- 
spiration  of  his  passion,  and  reinterpreted  hia 
thoughts.  This  was  the  work  he  did  for  England  ; 
amid  manifold  shams  and  hypocrisies  he  stood  fast 
by  the  truth,  for  it  was  to  bear  witness  to  the  truth 
that  he  was  boru,  aud  came  iuto  the  world. 


lim 


i   ; 


■  tt 


«? 


XIV 
CARLYLE :  CHAKACTERISTICS 


u 


N' 


OTHINO  Boetiiu  hid  from  tliose  wouder- 
ful  eytH  of  yoiu-8 ;  tliowe  Uuvouring  vyi-s ; 
those  Uirsty  vyva ;  tliost'  portniit-eatiii);, 
portrait-puiutiug  vyva  of  thine,"  wroto  Eiuenson  to 
Carlyle  iu  oue  of  his  i-urly  IftU-rs.  Tliose  pliniHcM  of 
Eiuuraon  are  uot  less  striking  than  true,  aud  thcy 
eouvey  to  us  ujucli  of  t'urlylc''s  seeret  us  au  artist. 
Wbatever  may  be  ssiid  ubout  certain  infelicities  of 
style  which  persons  o(  eonventionaljudguieut  lay  to 
his  charge,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  1'arlyle  is  a 
cousummate  artist,  wlth  a  power  of  vivid  expressiou 
unuiatched  in  English  literature.  There  is,  indeed, 
fouiethiug  almost  terrible  in  his  power  of  vision. 
Nothiug  escapes  him.  If  he  visits  a  strange  town  or 
village,  crosses  the  Irish  sea  with  a  rough  group  of 
"  unhappy  crciiures,''  talks  with  a  labourer  at  Craig- 
enputtock,  speuds  an  hour  with  Leigh  Ilunt  or  Cole- 
ridge,  nieets  Liunb,  Fraær,  Irving,  3Iurnij' — the 
result  is  the  sjinie,  a  p«»w«iiiil  etching,  done  with  the 
fewest  strokes,  but  oniitting  nothing  of  «*ither  pathos 
or  fully,  absurdity  or  weakia^ss.  A  rarer  gift— let  ns 
also  s:iv  a  more  perilons  gift — than  this  eould  not  Ikj  ; 
perilous  because  from  ils  inconsiderale  disj)lay  upon 
those  who  stood  nearest  to  him,  ('arlyle's  r<'putation 
has  suffered  most.  Unt  it  is  u  siipreme  gift,  an<l  that 
which  more  tlian  any  other  constitutes  the  great 
artist.     It  is  by  virtue  of  this  extraordinary  vigour 

20(i 


K 


CAKLYI.K:  niAUA(TKI{ISTlCS       2.»7 


(»r  iutelltH-tuul  vIhIoii,  iiiid  uitlHtJc  wiiMltivfiicHS,  tha( 
Cailyl»'  hiiM  writteii  lMK)k«  whirh  not  iiu'ix'ly  «•flwt 
lift,  hut  HIV  Ufo  it«elf,  and  move  uh  hm  only  the 
gieatost  imwtun»  of  tlui  cmitlve  iinaKtimUoii  can 
iaovi>  UH. 

After  all,  the  man  of  lettei-s  uuwt  expect  farne  for 
hi8  litcrary  qualities,  r.ither  tban  for  hm  ineswige.  It 
is  possible  enough  that  hin  mcssjige  niay  Im'  out- 
datttl ;  but  the  quality  of  n  :i:an'H  litemry  «ifl  is  not 
Huhjcct  to  permutation.  The  tni-sjsage  of  Curlyle  we 
have  considered :  let  iw  flnally  jwk,  what  original 
combination  of  gifts  does  he  possess  aa  a  man  of 
letters! 

First  of  all,  and  chiefly,  is  this  supreme  artistic 
faculty.     His  dramatic  iustiuct  is  perfect,  hiseye  for 
the  fine  points  and  grouping  of  his  picture  inevitably 
right.     It  iS  thia  gift  which  is  so  cunspicuous  in  the 
F,    tch  Kevolutiou,  aud  makes  it  a  great  epic,  a  series 
of  astonishiug  tahlcaux  vtvants,  rather  than  a  p-oso 
history.     But  tho  gift  is  liis  iu  whatever  he  touches, 
aud  it  imparts  the  glow  of  genius  to  his  leiwt  con- 
si»'  mi   writiugs.     Thcre    is    not   another    modem 
wi:    r  of  English   v.iio  has  produced  so  much   of 
which  so  little  can  l)e  spared.     Xot  even  Ruskiu  hius 
a  truer  cye  for  colour  and  efifect  in  Nature,  nor  can 
Ruskiu  paiut  Nature  with  a  more  impiussioued  sense 
of  feliowship   in  the  mysteries  aud  glories  of  the 
outwai-d  world.     Tould  the  view  from  Highgate  bo 
IMiuted  iu  aiiy  finer  fashion  than  this,  with  clearer 
austeiity  of  phrasc,  aud  yet  with   a  ceitaiu  uobh» 
largeuess  of  «'fTect  too  :  "Waviug,  biooui ing  country 
of  the  brightest  green  ;  dotted  all  over  with  hand- 
soiue  villas,  haudsome  groves ;  cross<'d  by  roads  aud 
huuuiu   traflTu-,   licre   inaudible  or  heartl  ouly  as  a 


I    . 


I  ■ 


Il  '' 


m 


f 

III     .1 

II 


208    THK  iMAKERS  OF  EXCiLlSII  PKOSK 

miisi(*;il  liuiu ;  aiul  behiiul  all  swani,  uiuler  olice- 
tiiited  fiuze,  the  illimitable  limitary  ocean  ol"  Lon- 
don "  f  Or  what  picture  of  a  Scotch  spring  can  be 
more  Jiccurately  perfect  than  this  :  "The  hills  stand 
suow-powdered,  pale,  bright.  The  black  hailstorm 
awakeus  in  them,  rushes  down  like  a  black,  swift 
ocean-tide,  valley  au8\vei'iug  valley ;  aud  again  the 
8UU  blinks  out,  and  the  i)oor  sower  is  casting  his 
grain  into  the  furrow,  hopeful  he  that  the  Zodiacs 
and  far  heaveuly  Horologes  have  not  faltered  "  ?  Or 
who  that  h;is  read  it,  will  not  recall  the  piissage  in 
which  he  speaks  of  riding  past  the  old  churchyard  at 
midnight,  the  huge  eim  darkly  brauched  against  the 
clear  sky,  aud  one  star  bright  above  it,  and  the  seuse 
that  God  was  over  all  T  It  is  in  such  psissages  that  the 
deep  poetry  of  Carlyle's  soul  utters  itself  most  freely. 
And  these  fine  moments  abound  in  all  his  writiugs. 
He  has  no  need  to  save  up  his  happy  inspiraiious  for 
future  use,  after  the  fashion  of  lesser  men.  His  is  the 
freest  and  most  prodigal  of  hands ;  and  nowhere  out- 
side  the  great  poets,  and  very  rarely  within  them, 
can  there  bo  found  depictions  of  Nature  at  once  so 
simple,  adequate,  and  perfect. 

TL  3  same  faculty  manifests  itself  even  more  re- 
markably  in  his  sketches  of  persons.  Without  an 
effort,  by  the  mere  instantaneous  flash  of  a  word, 
the  photograph  stands  complete.  Sometimcs  the 
process  is  slightly  more  elaborate,  but  it  is  always 
characterized  by  the  same  intensity  aud  rapidity  of 
executiou.  As  pieces  of  description,  which  sum  up 
With  a  strange  daring  and  completeiiess  not  merely 
the  outward  appearauce  of  men,  but  their  spiritual 
significance  also,  what  can  compare  with  these:— 
Coleridge,    "a    steam-engiue    of   a    hundred    horse 


K'(; 


\bi 


CARLYLE:  CIIAIIACTERISTICS       209 

power,  With  the  boiler  burst"  ;  Tennyson,  "a  fine 
large-featured,    dim  eyed,    brouze-coloured,   shagi^v- 
headed  man  is  Alfred  :  diwty,  smoky,  free  and  easy, 
who  swims  outwardly  and  iuwardly  with  great  com- 
posure  in  an  inarticulate  element  of  tmnquil  chaos 
and  tobaÆco-smoke";  Mazzini,  u  "swift,  yet  still, 
Ligurian  figure ;  mereiful  and  fierce ;  true  as  steel^ 
the  word  and  thought  of  him  limpid  aa  water,  by 
nature  a  iittle  lyrical  poet."     It  often  happens,  in- 
deed,  that  there  is  none  of  the  geniality  of  these 
descriptions  of  Tennyson  and  Mazzini  in  Carlyle's 
hiter  Pictures  of  some  of  his  contemporaries.     There 
is  something  even  savage  and  terrible  in  his  sketch  of 
Charles  Lamb,  and  his  deseription  of  Mill— "  wither- 
iug  orwitbered;  his  eyes  go  twinkling  andjerkiug 
With  wild  lights  and  twitches,  his  head  is  bald,  his 
face  brown  and  dry— poor  fellow  after  all."     It  must 
be  remembered,  however,  that  this  picture  of  Mill 
oecurs  in  a  letter  never  meant  for  publication,  aud  it 
never  ought  to  have  beeu  published.     Yet  there  is 
no  doubting  either  its  truth  or  power  as  a  piece  of 
art.     The  lines  are  etchod  in  with  a  heavy  and  savage 
haud,  but  undoubtedly  by  the  haud  of  a  master.     In 
this  peculiar  power  of  porti-aiture  by  means  of  tcrse 
and  vivid  phriises,  Tacitus  is  the  only  writer  with 
whom  Carlyle  can  be  compared,  aud  Carlyle  is  in 
every  way  his  master. 

The  artistic  sense  which  makes  him  so  superb  a 
phnise-raaker  in  dcscribing  men  serves  him  in  au- 
other  fonn  when  he  comes  to  the  criticism  of  thcir 
works.  One  secret  of  his  metho(i  is  to  convey  his 
impressiou  iu  some  strange  and  yet  felicitous  nicla- 
phor,  rather  than  by  any  uumc coilocation  of  (lualities. 
Thus,  wheu  he  ssiys  of  Emersou's  style  that  it  has 


*    ti 


!     il 


•I 


! 


li! 


V.    i 

Hi;  i  4 

1 

) 

'. 

■; 

1 

' '.    , 

f 

r        1 

■  ^  ■! 

1 

1 

»i  i 


I  i  i 


1  :-l     I 

Iq  ;  f 


210  thp:  makers  of  english  pkose 

"  brevity,  simplicity,  softuess,  Lomely  grace,  with 
such  a  penetrutiug  meaniug,  soft  euougb,  but  iire- 
sistible,  going  dowu  to  the  depths  aud  up  to  the 
heights,  as  silent  electricity  goes,"  we  feel  that  theie 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  It  is  the  last  phrase,  the 
metaphor  of  "silent  electricity,"  which  completes 
and  fixes  the  whole  impressiou.  Eeams  of  essjiys  on 
Emei-son  would  tell  us  nothing  more  than  Carlyle  hjis 
already  told  us  in  this  one  abrupt,  yet  half-rhythmic 
seutence.  And  it  is  so  with  all  his  criticism.  He 
has  an  inevitable  iustinct  for  the  right  word,  the 
one  fine  aud  accurate  phrase  which  expresses  what  is 
the  dominant  quality  of  a  writer.  Tbus,  when  he 
speaks  of  Gibbon,  he  hjis  nothing  to  say  about  the 
pomp  aud  roll  of  his  style  ;  he  puts  his  finger  at 
once  upon  that  which  is  of  vastly  higher  significance 
— "hiswinged  sarcasms,  so  quiet,  and  yet  so  con- 
clusively  transpierciug,  and  killiug  dead."  Some 
allowauce  must,  of  course,  be  made  for  personal 
likings  and  prejudioes,  especially  in  a  man  so  liable 
to  impulse  as  Carlyle.  Many  of  his  judgments  upon 
his  contemporaries  are  not  ouly  ill  natured,  but  tliey 
are  ignorant.  Wheu  he  personally  disliked  a  man, 
he  made  no  effort  to  understand  his  writings,  and  re- 
fused  him  even  court<^sy,  as  in  the  cjise  of  Newman, 
whose  braiu  he  said  was  probably  about  the  size  of  a 
moderate  rabbifs.  But  thest^  grotesque  injustices 
occur  for  the  most  part  in  conversation,  or  in  private 
letters,  where  he  felt  himself  free  to  talk  unieh  as 
Dr.  Johnson  did,  with  small  regard  lo  aiiythiug  but 
his  own  enjoyment  in  expressing  his  mind.  When 
he  Silt  down  to  any  deliberate  piece  of  criticism,  the 
ctuse  wjus  wholly  altered.  Ho  then  brojight  all  his 
great  powers  of  insight,  sympathy,  and  vividness  to 


CARLYJ.E:  CHAKACTERLSTICS       211 

bear  upou  his  autJior.  He  permitted  uo  prejudice  Jo 
keep  him  from  expressiug  what  he  felt  to  be  the  es- 
seutial  truth  about  the  man  aud  his  work.  The  result 
IS  that  his  essays  on  authors— for  example  those  ou 
Johusou  aud  Burus— are  iu  themselves  imperishable 
pieces  of  literature.  They  couvey  to  the  mind  a 
clearer  image  of  the  mau,  both  physical  aud  spir- 
itual, thau  eau  be  fouud  auywhere  else.  They  are 
sufficient  to  prove  that  iu  the  domaiu  of  criticism,  it 
18  a  case  of  Carlyle  fii-st  aud  the  rest  uowhere. 

As  compared  with  other  writers  of  history,  essay 
aud  biography,  the  power  of  Carlyle  comes  out  iu 
two  ways.    The  iret  is  a  superior  siucerity.     He  will 
have  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  aud  uothing  but  the 
truth  about  his  hero.     Thus,  for  example,  no  oue 
could  have  beeu  more  autipathetic  to  him  thau  Vol- 
taire.     He  disliked  his  writiugs,  aud  perhaps  i-esented 
still  more  his  light  aud  airy  mockery,  his  power  of 
riding  ou  the  wave,  of  utiliziug  popularity,  of  dauc- 
ing  through  life  with  iuimitable  gaiety,  soatteriug 
scathiug  jests  as  he  went.    But  he  could  recoguize 
that  Voltaire  was  after  all  a  sort  of  prophet,  aud  hon- 
est to  the  bone.     At  all  eveuts,  he  had  stood  upou 
the  sule  of  unpopular  justice,  and  had  a  passion  for 
right.     Macaulay,  when  he  speaks  of  Voltaire,  sees 
none  of  these  thi ,.-s.     He  writes  a  bitter  aud  elever 
verse  about  him,  and  dismisses  the  subject.     Carlyle, 
With  a  ftir  more  intense  passion  for  religion,  and  -a 
srronger  detestatiou  of  Voltaire's  temper  towards  it 
thau  Macaulay  could  ever  have  felt,  has  a  searching 
sincerity  of  iusight  which  discovers  at  once  the  true 
spiritual  ealibre  of  the  man.     Cousideriug  what  Car- 
lyle'8  owu  beliefs  were,  and  what  his  usual  temper 
was  towards  those  who  differed  from  him,  his  essay 


Wi 


ri 


-I  i 


h< 


fu 


i  w        I 


212    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENCiLlSH  PKOSE 

ou  VolUiirc  is  oue  of  tlic  most  coii.spicuous  triumpbs 
of  siucerity  wbich  literature  affbrds. 

Tl  e  other  direction  iu  wbich  tbe  power  of  Carlyle 
appears  is  bis  insigbt.  Htre,  agaiu,  one  cauuot  but 
compare  Macaulay  at  tbe  risk  of  repeatiiig  wbat  bas 
beeu  already  said.  Macaulay  steps  before  tbe  court 
amid  rouuds  of  applause,  witb  iiistructious  to  smasb 
bis  oppoueufs  case.  Tlie  audieuce  is  uot  disap- 
poiuted.  As  a  rule  be  fulfills  tbeir  utmost  bopes. 
He  marsballs  bis  case  witb  tbe  coiisummate  ability 
of  a  great  advocate.  Iu  uotbiug  tbat  be  bas  writteu 
is  be  su  mucb  iu  bis  elemeut  as  iu  bis  demolitiou  of 
poor  Robert  Moutgomery,  wbo,  it  must  be  owued, 
ricbly  deserved  all  be  got.  His  notiou  of  describiug 
a  mau  is  tbe  special  pleader's  uotiou — to  accumulate 
various  ascertaiuable  details  about  bim.  He  eau 
pack  '  p:n"agrapb  witb  iuterestiug  trivialities  about 
a  ni.iu'8  appetite,  bis  clotbcs,  his  babits,  bis  pleas- 
ures,  aud  bis  vices.  If  he  is  not  a  Whig,  a  great  deal 
more  will  be  said  of  bis  vices  thau  of  auytbiug  else. 
But  Macaulay  uever,  by  any  chauce,  gives  us  the 
fuU-leugtb  portrait  of  a  mau,  aud  Carlyle  does.  He 
arranges  tbe  wig,  tbe  clotbes,  tbe  gloves  be  woni 
wheu  be  weut  to  court,  aud  all  tbe  other  useful 
accessorics  of  tbe  studio,  but  he  does  uot  paiut  tbe 
mau.  Carlyle  will  take  as  deliberate  and  patieut 
cai-e  as  Macaulay  to  gatbcr  details,  but  be  knows 
tbat  tbey  are  ouly  details.  Wbat  he  wauts,  aud  will 
have,  if  it  be  discoverable,  is  the  spiritual  truth 
about  the  man.  He  coustructs  his  history  and  bi- 
ogiaphy  from  the  inside,  not  the  outside.  He  sees, 
and  boldly  fingers,  the  "very  pulse  of  the  machine." 
He  :iiialyzes  and  combines  spiritual  elements  witb  au 
alcbemy  whose  secret  uo  other  shares.     Tbe  result  is 


!    ;.. 


™' 


1 1 

i»; 


( ^AULY I.E :  CIIARACTERlSTirs       2 1 3 


Ihat  whuu  Carlyle  hsw  (iuisbetl  such  a  work  us  liis 

rromwcU,  there  is  nothiug  more  to  ln-  sjiiU.     "Hen/' 

he  sjiys,  "  is  the  veracious  man,  waiLs  aud  all.     Take 

him  or  leave  him  sis  you  will,  but  you  cau't  make 

him  dilFereut."     Nor  can  we.     Nothing  that  haslw-en 

written  on  Cromwell  siuce  Carlyle  wrofe  has  had  the 

slightest  eflfect  on  public  opinion  by  way  of  modify- 

ing  Carlyle's  verdiet.     But  theie  is  scarcely  a  great 

passage  iu  Maeaulay  which  is  not  capable  of  auother 

version,  and  Mr.  Gladstom    hiis  even  goue  so  far  as 

to  speak  of  Macaulay's  miud  as  hermetically  sealed 

to  truths  which  he  did  not  wish  to  kuow.     Iu  mattei-s 

of  private  judgmeut  Carlyle  could  ofteu  be  both  uu- 

just  aud  ungeuerous,  but  no  such  charge  can  be  made 

n-aiust  lus  writiugs.     As  historiau,  biographer,  and 

essayist,  his  power  of  iusight  is  so  acute  that  it  ofteu 

seems  aluiost  magical,  and  it  never  fails  to  discover 

and  attest  the  truth,  so  far  as  the  absolute  truth  eau 

be  kuown,  about  auy  great  actor  or  maker  of  the 

past. 

Of  the  peculiarity  of  Carlyle' s  dialeci  much  has 
been  written,  but  ouly  a  word  ueed  be  spokeu  heie. 
It  used  to  be  the  custom  toaccusehimofGermanizing 
the  Euj^åsh  tougue,  aud  Wordsworth  ouce  said  that 
he  wfis  a  pest  to  the  language.     But  what  was  sup- 
posed  to  be  a  German  discolouratiou  was  real      a 
Scotch.     He  simply  talked  all  through  his  V         e 
stroiig  Doric  he  had  learned  as  a  boy  at  Ecclefe,     au 
His  father  had  the  same  faculty  of  tlashingand  rugged 
phrase :  Carlyle  inherited  it.     It  is  true  that,  when 
he  begau  to  write,  he  wrote  precisely  aud  smoothly. 
Precisely,  iudeed,  he  always  wrote  :   no  slipshod  seu- 
teuces  ever  escaped  him,  aud  his  liastiest  note  is  tin- 
ished  With  sisjealous  an  atteutiou  to  phrase  as  though 


i 


214    THK  MAKKl^S  OF  ENGLI8H  PliOSK 


li 

I» 


^. 


■\  'yl 


it  weie  mcant  for  the  press,  aud  iut4;uded  as  a  hostage 
for  immortality.  But  as  his  own  poetic  power  grew , 
he  felt  the  ueed  for  a  larger  form,  aud  he  fouud  it  in 
the  expressive  lauguage  of  his  boyhood.  Thiukiug 
always  as  an  idealist,  he  was  more  aud  more  cou- 
Btraiued  to  write  aa  a  realist,  and  smoothuess  and  pol- 
ish of  phrase  is  inconsistent  with  a  realism  so  vigor- 
ons  as  his.  In  prose  he  does  pretty  mueh  what 
Browning  does  in  poetr.\ ,  exeept  that  with  all  his  rug- 
gedness  he  is  uever  obscm»'.  Burus also  wrote smooth 
Euglish,  but  not  when  he  felt  deeply  ;  then  his  tougue 
fell  into  the  deeper  harmonies  of  the  mellow  Doric. 
Who  does  not  prefer  the  latter !  Who  cannot  per- 
ceive  that  Tam  o'  Skanter  is  worth  forty  volumes  of 
lettere  to  Clarinda?  Aud  difficult  aud  harsh  as  it 
may  appear  at  first,  till  the  secret  of  its  rhythm  is 
learned,  who  does  not  also  feel  that,  as  a  vehicle  of 
uttertiuce,  the  style  of  Sartor  Resaiim  is.  every  way 
nobler  and  greater  thau  the  polished  paragraphs  of 
the  Life  of  Schiller  aud  the  earlier  essays  t 

Of  the  mauy  books  of  Cai*lyle  it  is  impossible  to 
take  detailed  notice.  The  Miscelluneous  Essays,  Hero- 
Worship,  aud  The  French  Bevolution  will  probably  re- 
main  the  most  popular.  The  political  writiugs  will 
be  the  first  to  perish  in  the  nature  of  thiugs.  The 
gospel  of  Carlyk— that  is,  the  fullest  expressiou  of 
what  ue  regarded  as  his  spiritual  message  to  his  times 
— will  be  best  learned  from  Siuior  Resartus  aud  the 
Life  cf  Sterling.  Beyond  these  numerous  aud  various 
Tv-ritiugs  there  rises  the  huge  bulk  of  the  History  of 
Frederick  the  Great,  which  iu  mauy  ways  is  his  great- 
est  work.  Emerson  said  that  it  wjis  the  wittiest  book 
ever  writteu,  aud  jis  a  series  of  scenes,  inimitably 
staged,  aud  ranging  through  every  latitude  of  emo- 


m  f  I 


f  -  ;     I 


iin 


CAKLYLK :  CHA  IlACTKR ISTICS       215 

tion,  tliere  i«  uotliing  tomparable  with  it.     The  man 
who  could  aiiord  bnt  two  historieis  should  rea<l  Gib- 
l)oii  aiid  C'arlyle'8  Firdnick :  iu  thest^  the greatest  his- 
torieal  genius  of  our  mce  finds  its  expression.     But 
when  all  estiiuates  of  his  works  are  weighed  and 
ended,  all  depieeiations  of  time  and  opinion  allowed 
for,  most  people  will  feel  that  Carlyle'8  great  legaey 
to  the  world  is,  after  all,  himself.     Next  to  Dr.  John- 
son there  is  no  other  figure  that  stands  out  in  English 
literature  with   such  distinctness  aud  virility.     In 
mere  Titanie  nuuss  Cailyle,  indeed,  bulks  tar  larger 
than  the  old  dietator  of  eighteenth-eentury  letters. 
But  >vhat  is  eommon  to  both  is  a  fascinating  perver- 
sity,  a  brusque  and  humorous  honest y,  and  above  all 
a  eertain  antique  severity  and  nobleness  of  nature. 
Just  jis  we  remember  and  diseuss  Johnson  by  liis 
charaeteristies  rather  than  his  writings,  so  it  may  be, 
in  a  eentury's  time,  the  figure  and  actual  life  of  Car- 
lyle  will  prove  more  fjiscinating  than  anything  which 
\w  wrote.     It  may  be  so,  but  who  can  stiy  ?    Th(^  one 
thing  that  is  clear  to  us  is  that  he  is  by  far  the  great- 
est  nian  of  letters  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  most 
interesting,  noble,  and  impressive  ;  and  as  a  spiritual 
and  moral  force,  there  is  no  other  writer  who  hjis 
touched  his  times  so  deeply,  or  deserves  more  houour- 
able  memory. 


1 

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^^ 


. 


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ti! 


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i 

M    1 

■  '■ "  1 

i 

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rii:i 

XV 

EMERSON 

Ralph  WnMo  Emerson,  horn  in  Boston,  May  25,  1803.  Oradu- 
attd  at  Harvard,  \H'i\.  Min  Mi  r  of  the  Second  Church,  lionton, 
IH-Jy.  Kenigmd  in  1832.  Vimtvd  Kuropv  in  lH33,  an  avcount  of 
hin  impremoHH  aftvntnrda  appiarinij  in  Knifliah  Truit».  Stttted  ut 
Concord,  1H34.  Aatiire  pulilishid,  1  H3«,  7  V/s.'  »eri,„  of  essaya,  1H41 . 
Second  series,  1H4I.     Died  in  Concord,  April  27,  1882. 

1NTIMATELY  asswiaUHl  witl»  Carlyle,  not  alone 
by  one  of  the  most  bi-autiful  of  literary  friend- 
ships,  but  by  a  wrtain  kiiiship  of  genius,  is 
Emerson.  Emerson  had  somethini?  of  Carlyle's  keen- 
ness  of  Vision  without  his  niehumlioly,  liis  humour,  or 
his  ruggedness.  He  was  a  seer  in  the  pot^tie  sense 
ratlier  than  the  prophetic;  and,  as  one  of  his  warra- 
est  adniirers  reniarked,  mueh  more  of  a  seer  tlmn  a 
philosopher.  Fn  his  famous  Fahlc  for  Crlticn,  Mr. 
Russell  Lowell  iustitutes  an  elaborate  coniparisou  be- 
twwn  Carlyle  and  Emerson,  the  most  discerning  lines 
of  which  are  these  : 

"Tocompare  him  with  Plato  would  be  vastly  fairer, 
Carlyle'3  the  more  burly,  but  E.  is  the  rarer; 
He  sees  fewer  objects,  bnt  clearlier,  truliei-, 
If  Cs  an  original,  E.'s  more  peculiar; 
C.'s  the  Titan,  aa  shagKy  of  niind  as  of  limb, 
E.'s  the  clear-eyed  Olynipian,  rapid  and  slim." 

An  American  Plato  Emerson  was,  yet  owing  little 
to  Pluto,  fur  liad  Plato  never  lived,  Emerson  would 
have  arrived  by  instiuet  at  a  Platonic  view  of  the 

21G 


EMKIiSOX 


217 


nniviTSc.     His  «'sscntial  diflerence  from  Carlyle  lies 
ill  tluf  ralmiiasH  and  <l«'pth  of  his  inspiration,  sis  nuii- 
paivd  with  the  tiiil)ul(>iM'u  and  intermittent  vivichicsH 
of  Carlyii''s.     What  Carlyle  writes  in  lightninj;,  Eni- 
ersou  writes  in  light.     Ile  om-e  described  himself  as 
being  somewhat  of  a  Quaker ;  elearly  he  possessed 
that  secret  of  tine  poise  and  inuermost  tranquillity 
Mhich  is  peeuliar  to  the  Inst  type  of  Quaker  temper- 
ament.    In  him  it  amountetl  almost  to  austerity,  and 
yet  a  tlioroughly  kiiully  and  genial  austerity.     Anger, 
violeuce,  piussiou  of  any  kiud  he  did  not  know.     Ile 
stood  aloof  from  the  world,  dreamed  his  dream,  and 
was  coutent.     Perhaps  much  of  his  iutlueuce  arost? 
from  this  spiritual  aloofuess.     Ile  does  not  carry  the 
intellect  by  asssiult,  Imt  gently  interfuses  and  peue- 
trates  it  with  his  ideas  ;  speaks  not  loudly  but  with 
quiet  couviucing  power  ;  dazzles  us  a  little,  yet  with 
a  certaiu  veiled  softness of  light ;  melts  our  opposition 
rather  than  overcomes  it ;  dissolves  our  materialism 
in  a  subtle  elixir  of  spiritual  i  ty  ;  steals  into  our  mind 
with  a  footfall  so  light  that  our  logic  does  not  wakeu  ; 
annexes  and  oeenpies  it,  making  loyal  subjeets  of  us 
before  we  know  it,  and  by  methods  that  we  have 
neither  the  will  nor  the  means  to  dispute. 

Emersoii's  life  is  remarkable  for  a  certain  noble 
iiuity.  One  diseovers  iu  it  no  trace  of  spiritual  con- 
flict,  no  disruptiou  of  thought,  none  of  thoæ  acute 
liours  of  eonflict  wliieh  give  sudden  and  new 
determiuation  to  ideas  and  eonduct.  He  wjis  Iwrn 
into  eulture,  the  very  best  of  its  kind  then  available. 
As  a  boy  he  was  inteusely  interested  in  Montaigne, 
and  was  accustomed  to  take  Pjuscars  Pensées  to 
chnrch  with  him.  The  first  awakeuings  of  his  mind 
were  eagerly  watehed  and  sedulously  uurtured.     Yet 


ii 


w 


Ilt 


ihi- 


4  i 


I  I 


218    TIIK  AFAKKHS  OF  KXCJLISII  l'K()SK 

it  «1»M'M  not  ap|M'iir  tliat  ritluT  his  ianiily  or  hJH  furly 
IViriHls  «n-Witetl  liiiii  wilh  };«'Mius.     I'iol)al)ly  (his  was 
iHraust'  hr  was  t(M)  wiisitivc  uikI  ivliiriit  to  xiy  imu-h 
alK)nt  th«i  jumesHfs  of  Imh  i)wn  uiiiid.     Alwayn  very 
iuui'h  of  a  iwluse  in  his  habits,  he  wiis  a  iwhuju 
in  niiml  also.     In  later  life  it  was  often  reniarktd 
that  lie  bore  a  siuguhir  restuublant-e  to  Newman  ;  he 
resembled  Newman  also  in  many  qualities  of  tem- 
perament.    He  belouged  essentially,  as  Newman  tlid, 
to   the  tji-eat   society  of  the   mysties,   possessed  the 
sjime  power  of  personal  cliarm,  haU  tlie  same  air  of 
austerity  touehed  with  snavity,   impresseil  all  who 
knew  him  with  the  same  sense  of  æpanitiou  from 
the  (tomuion  piussions  of  the  Ihsh,  and  the  conven- 
tioi-.al  pursuits  of  men.     Emerson,  lired  at  Oxford, 
ean  be  easily  conceived  as  falling  under  the  fascina- 
tion  of  mediæval  theology.     Newman,  l)red  iu  the 
brisk  intelleetual  air  of  New  England  Uuitarianism, 
might  quite  as  e;isily  be  conceived  as  drifting  into 
transcendental  concei)tions  of  life  and  nature.     The 
parallel,    however,    must    not    be    pushed    too    far. 
Emeraon  had  littlii  of  Newman'»  spiritual  pjissiouate- 
ness— a  most  important  matter.     It  would  appear 
that  he  never  felt  at  any  time  that  sense  of  sin  which 
has  been  so  pregnant  and  so  real  to  all  men  of  pro- 
found  religions  genius.     Nor  had  he  the  least  spark 
of  that  divine  discontent  which  all  reformers  have 
known.     Carlyle  felt  this  as  a  disiippointing  element 
iu   Emerson's  character.     ''  He  seems  very  content 
with  life,  and  takes  nuu^h  sjitisfaction  in  the  world," 
wrote  Carlyle.     "  It's  a  very  striking  and  curious 
spectacle  to  behold  a  man  in  these  daysso  contidently 
cheerful  an  Emei-son."     Yet  (Carlyle  would  have  been 
the  tirst  to  udmit  that  Emerson  possessed  a  quiet 


i!!i ;  I 


EMEUSOX 


219 


iutensily  of  soul,  by  virtue  of  wbicL  he  wbh  jiu  up- 
l>tMiit('U  teufluT  of  nu'u. 

TIh!  Urat  «'florlH  of  Eiiutsoii  tM  l4'jic,ln'r  wfie  not 
very  siRcessful.     Oue  lu-siis  of  wrUiiti  tollcge  ml- 
divswM,    wUiih    oweU    their    clisi.m,   perhups,   to  u 
siuguluily  melodioius  voice— all   tho  Emersous  bad 
lieautiful  voict-si— bi        lieh  Mak«iM'd  uo  i-uthusiasm. 
"  I  fouud  it  loug  aud  dry,"  writes  JoHiali  Quiucy  of 
oue  of  tluse  dissertatious.     The  real  Euu-i-sou  of  this 
peiiud  is  louud  iu  eertalu  private  lettt^i-s.     "I  am 
seekiug  to  put  uiyself  ou  a  footiug  of  old  aequaiutauce 
wiih  nature,  as  a  pot-t  should" — "a  pair  of  moou- 
light  eveni»  j8  have  screwed  up  my  esteem  sevenil 
pegs  high*  •,   by  supplyiug   uiy  bmin  with  several 
bright  fragments  of  thought,  aud  makiug  me  dream 
that  mind  as  well  as  body  respind  more  freely  here." 
Iu    these   coufessious  we    have   tho  first  prelusive 
notes  of  a  music  since  familiar.     Iu  the  uatund  order 
of  things  Emerson  should  have  followed  the  family 
ti~aditiou,  aud  have  fouud  his  voeatiou  iu  the  pulpit. 
He  made  the  experinu;ut  sis  beeame  a  dutiful  sou, 
but  without  euthusiasm.     If  he  did  not  succeed,  he 
did  not  fail.     The  experieni;e  did  him  uo  harm  ;  it 
probably  taught  him  something  of  the  art  of  public 
address,  aud  gave  him  a  breathiug-time.     At  last  a 
crisis  came,  if  oue  may  dignify  by  so  large  a  word 
the  equable  aud  geutle  proeess  of  events  which  gave 
Emers<ju   his  liberty.     Ostensibly   the  eeelesijistieal 
rock  ou  which  Emerson  split  was  the  Sacrameut. 
He    iuformed    his  congregation  that  he  eould  not 
regard  the  LordV  Supi)er  as  nu'ant  to  bt  a  permanent 
institution,  addiug,  with  a  touch  of  brusqueuess  un- 
usuiil  with  him,  that  even  if  he  did  so  think  hewould 
not  adopt  it.     "I  should  choose  other  Mays,  which, 


li 


I  I' 


J«^i 


22U    THK  MAKKIW  OF  K\(JLISII  PUOSK 

jw  iiHm^  «'niTtuul  lijHtii  iii<>,  ]|(>  MouUl  appiovr  moiv. 
Imh-  i  cluKtHi!  Iliiil  iii,v  n'in»iiilniiiu«'.s«»l"  lliiii  Nluiitltl  Ih^ 
pltjwinjf,  ulIWtiiiK,  «'liKioiiH.  1  will  lovt*  iliui  um  u 
Klorithil  frifinl,  nihr  the  liw  way  oi  li  ieudMluj),  uml 
not  i»ay  hiiii  a  sliflnigu  ol"  ifHiitrt,  us  muu  do  to  tho«« 
whoiii  tliey  li-ar  !  " 

EiiHTMoii  piobuhly  iinaifiiitHl  tliat  he  could  nirry 
his  foiigivKalioii  witli  hiiii  iii  thm*  coiulusioiis.     It 
H»HMUH  unlikfly  thai  he  ifally  wiNhtU  to  Uiiiiiuate  u 
«anfi-  ill  whit^  ho  hau  .^.....(1  a  goml  deal  of  «luiet 
hal»l)^lle^w.     Certuiiily  hm  «ougregat ion  had  no  wish 
tliat  lu-  Hhould  leuvo  theni.     Thty  Mere  a»  libernl  in 
tliought,  U8  devoled  to  lulture,  m  any  eongivgatiou 
could    well    be,    aud    thioughout    New  England    u 
traditional  n'8i>ect  and  allectiou  uttached  to  the  uaiiie 
of  Emei^sou.     Hut  Emei>«>n  wua  not  uwai-e  that  he  had 
outgi-owu  thew  till  this  sudden  eause  of  differeuce 
uioise.     When  the  mind  is  full  of  lluid  elements  of 
new  thought,  held  in  a  state  of  suspeusiou,  it  netnls 
but  a  loueh  to  precipitute  crysUiUization.     The  ques- 
tion  of  what  the  Loid'8  Supiwr  meant  served  to  bring 
uiiitteis  to  the  test,  l)iit  any  otlier  subject  would  have 
«•rveil  as  well.     He  had  spoken  truth  when  he  sjiid 
that  he  was  more  of  a  Quakei-  than  anythiug  else  ;  he 
found  the  Quaker  iu   him   uow  quietly  protest  ing 
against  all  form,  aud  dreaming  of  a  widtr  worship.    He 
ri'signed  his  pjistorat-    -ot  without  some  disappoint- 
ment  at  the  intrae*  his  tlook,  but  with  not 

the  least  trace  of  sore.  feeling.     Three  days 

later,  on  the  Christmas  .   ^         1832,  he  sjiiled  for 
Eurojie. 

Th«  record  of  this  tour,  which  is  perhaps  the  most 
meiaorable  event  iu  Emei-soirs  quiet  life,  is  full  of 
interest.     Ile    described    its  puipose  iu  a  singular 


EMKUSON 


'JL'l 


phnuMi— "To  tind  im-w  aflinitUiH  Mween  me  itml  my 
lrlh)W  iiu'11.''  TIh!  «udiiiary  sliriiu*  at  whi<'h  tin- 
tourist  worshiiw  tlo  not  mH-m  jjivutly  t«  iiaveattnutiMl 
liim.  Kor  iirt  hv.  IhuI  th«  liking  of  tlHU)rcUmiry  culti- 
viitnl  man,  hut  litlle  nnil  intcrcst.  In  Hom»',  h«* 
it'lh'«'t.s  Ihat  the  cmotion  awakencd  by  nameM  of 
plar<>M,  art,  and  miigniticcnce  iH,  after  all,  evaneNcent 
and  superfifial.  He  rt>members  at  8yra(;uHe  the  great 
namo8  identitiinl  with  it«  piwt  hintory,  but  he  only 
warnis  into  real  fe4'ling  when  he  Hp<>akH  of  i>ickiiiK 
wild  flowera  near  the  fountain  of  Cya  5.  Venice 
kindN'8  no  rapture»,  Paris  rep<;l8  him  b;  8  likenesH 
to  New  York.  In  •lutHi^  conft^ons  one  reads  the 
nnin.  Natnre.  then  and  alwayH,  held  the  firHt  plaee 
in  Knier»on's  afTectionH,  and  next  to  natnre,  man  in 
his  spiritjial  signiticanee.  Even  the  famons  men 
whom  he  nnn-tH  do  not  s«M'ni  to  have  made  mneh  im- 
pn'SHion  on  him.  Landor,  he  «loes  not  lind  e(|nal  to 
his  reputation  ;  Coleridge  is  disiippointing  ;  Words- 
worth,  even  mort^  so.  He  admits  the  rart?  elevatiou 
of  \Vordsworth's  mind  in  its  own  domain  ;  bnt  it  is 
upon  Ui«'  wlu)l<'  **a  n-arrow  and  very  English  mind." 
Newman  he  did  not  meet,  nor  does  he  seem  to  have 
been  aware  of  the  great  intluenee  he  wiis  beginning 
to  exert.  Cailyle  h" did  mwt,  diseovering his  wheie- 
alionts  at  (V.iigenpnttoek  with  diflfieulty,  and  the 
meeting  wsis  memorable  in  every  way.  In  Carlyle 
he  foinid  the  true  fri«>nd  of  his  soul.  With  the  widest 
possil)le  (liflTerence  of  temperament,  eaeh  regarded  the 
nnivcise  mneh  in  the  same  way.  The  most  remark- 
able fralnæ  of  this  famous  interview  was,  as  Dr. 
fJarnet  remarks,  *<the  perfectly  eqnal  footingofhim 
whosc  genias  was  acknowledgod  at  leasf  by  his  visitor, 
and  the  thiukor  as  yet  entiroly  iniknown  to  farne." 


'Lti 


>\i 


r:i 


l.t 


222    THE  xMAKKKS  ()F  ENOLISH  PROSE 

Curlyle  at  once  i-ccoguizeU  his  worth,  fouiul  liim  full 
of  esseutial  sinwrity— "  the  luost  simple  uiid  fnmk  of 
men  "—felt  liis  ehiinu,  uiid  foresjiw  tlio  j,M»>\v)h  of  hin 
genius.  The  imp-ession  made  by  Carly  le  on  Emerson 
was  deep  and  permanent.  Fifty  y.>ai-s  later,  wlieu 
Emerson  lay  dying,  he  turned  with  a  smile  of  affec- 
tion  to  Carlyle's  portrait  hangiug  on  the  wall,  and 
said,  '<  That  is  the  man,  my  man." 

Carlyle  probably  gave  an  impulse  of  eohesion  to 
Emerson'»  genius  at  the  preeise  moment  when  il  was 
most  needed.  Hitherto  he  had  written  nothing,  and 
although  he  was  not  wanting  in  self-confidenee,  liad 
no  idea  of  any  urgent  messjige  whieh  it  was  laid  on 
him  to  utter.  Carlyle'8  frank  reeognitioii  of  him  as 
a  spiritual  and  intellectual  equal  must  have  had  a 
most  stimuhit'  -  efifect  upon  him.  He  liad  Icft 
America  in  a  .f  ill-heallh  and  general  despoud- 

ency,  so  far  at,  is  in  one  of  so  eipiable  a  tempera- 

ment to  know  despondenee.  He  liad  bnried  his 
youug  wife  after  a  brief  union  of  hut  a  few  months, 
liad  severed  himself  from  the  ministry  for  whieh  he 
had  l)een  tmined  and,  beyoiid  eeitain  vague  dreams 
of  liferary  work,  had  no  very  definite  aim  in  life. 
Carlyle's  approval  and  warm  regard  helped  to  reveal 
him  to  himself  He  weiit  baek  to  America  witli  a 
new  and  well-grouiided  confidenee  in  hisown  powers. 
Heneeforth  he  was  to  become  the  prophet  of  spiritual 
ideas  to  America,  a.s  Tarlyh'  was  to  England,  aud  in 
maiiy  ways  tlie  Mork  of  the  two  men  was  to  intersect. 
The  eentre  of  all  EMiefson's  system  of  tliought  is 
to  be  tound  in  the  essay  whieh  iie  oalled  Tfir  Onr- 
mitl  All  matter  was  to  him  the  vesture  of  the 
spiritual,  or  of  the  universal  soul.  ''  We  see  the 
world,"  he  writes,  "piece  by  piece,  as  the  sun,  the 


EMEHSOX 


22'å 


moon,  tlu'  iiuimal,  the  tire  ;  but  the  wbole,  of  which 
llicse  are  the  shilling  parts,  is  the  soul.     .     .     ,     From 
witliiii,  ur  IVom  behiml,  a  light  shiiies  throiigh  us  upou 
liungs,  aud  makes  us  aware  that  ne  are  uothiiig,  but 
the  light  is  all.     What  we  coin:i;ua!y  cili  ixinn,  the  eat- 
ing,  driuking,  planting,  calew*ati;)<>:  man,  «iii  not,  jus 
we  know  him,  represent  Lin  se  Jf.   biit  uii  irepresents 
hiniself.     Him  we  do  not  respd,  Uu  ;'ie  soul,  whose 
orgau  he  is,  would  he  let  it  appearthrough  his  action, 
would    make   our   knees    bend.     Wheu  it  breathes 
through  his  intellect,  it  is  genius ;  when  it  breathes 
through  his  will,  it  is  virtue  ;  wheu  it  flows  through 
his  affection,  it  is  love.     ...     All  reform  aims,  in 
some  one  partieular,  to  let  the great  soul  haveitsway 
through    us."     The  siime  truth   is  put  even   more 
felicitously  in  his  lectureou  ]\Iontaigne.     "  The  lesson 
of  li  fe  is  to  believe  what  the  years  aud  the  centuries 
say  against  the  hours.     Things  seem  to  teud  dowu- 
ward,  to  justify  despoudeney,  to  promote  rognes,  to 
defeat  the  just,  and  by  k naves,  as  by  martyrs,  the 
just   eause  is  carried  forward.     Let  a  man  learu  to 
look  for  the  perman«'nt  in  the  mutable  and  the  fleet- 
ing;    let   him   learn   to   l)ein-  the  disjippearance  of 
things  he  was  wont  to  reverenee  without  losing  his 
revereiK-e  ;  let  him  learn  that  lie  is  here,  not  lo  work, 
but   to  be  worked  upon  ;   and  though  abyss  open 
under  abyss,  and  opinion  displiu-e  opinion,  all  are  at 
last  contai ned  in  the  Et<M-nal  Canse."     Man  is  here 
to  be   worlrd   npon—Wnit   is   the  prevailing  note  of 
Emersoirs  teaching.     The  greatest  man  is  he  who 
is  most   fully  sunvndered  to  the  energy  of  the  uni- 
versal soul,  most  piastic  to  its  pressure.     All  history 
is  the  working  of  th..  nniversal  soul  tlirough  man— ili 
essenee  the  i-ouclusion  of  Cromwill  when  he  a«ked 


i 


2'2i    TUK  MAKKkS  OF  ENCJLTSH  PROSE 


31 


t>', 


what  were  "  eveuts  "  but  *'  (iod  working  "  f    80  again 
With  geuius.     tJonius  is  tlie  iustruiueut  of  the  uii- 
uttvred.     It  origi nates   uothiug,  but  it  perfectly  re- 
ports  messjig«'.s  iiiaiulible  to  others.     The  true  efficacy 
of  genius  lies  iu  what  we  call  its  power  of  iutuition  • 
but  what  is  iutuition  but  the  power  of  arriving  at 
truth  by  processes  which  have  uo  couuection  with  logic 
or  exterual  evidence  1    Milton,  praying  that  the  Holy 
Spirit  may  brood  over  his  miud  and  touch  it  to  utter- 
auce,  comes  uearer  to  expressing  the  true  method  of 
pætry  thau  any  other  has  done.     Emerson  uses  a  dif- 
ferent terminology,  but  his  meaning  is  the  ssime.     He 
once  told  a  frieud  that  when  he  spoke  of  God  he  pre- 
ferred  to  say  It.     His  friend  soon  discovered,  how- 
ever,  that  when  they  spoke  of  the  omnipresence  of 
God  they  really  meaut  the  sjime  thing.     In  the  same 
way  there  is  no  substantial  diflference  between  Milton 
and  Emerson  in  the  definition  of  genius  except  iu 
phiasi».     Where  Emerson  gave  his doctrine  new  force 
was  in  wideniug  its  range.     Not  ouly  in  man,  not 
only  in  history,  but  iu  all  nature  he  saw  tue  univer- 
sal  soul  moMiig  behind  tho  screen  of  matter.     The 
sjune  force  that  was  genius  in  IVIilton  was  form  in  the 
mountaiii,  boauty  in  the  cloud,  fragnince  in  the  flower. 
Thus,  like  Spinoza,  he  was  "  Gotl-incbriated,"  seeing 
the   whole  u  ni  verse  brimming  over  with  God.     In 
God  we  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  our  being ;  and 
not   only    we,    but   every   humblest   creature   under 
heaven,  every  dew-drop  on  the  field,  every  leaf  upon 
the  tree,  every  tiny  life  hidden  in  the  deep  obscurity 
of  sea  or  forest. 

(.'arlyle  luus,  of  coui-se,  said  niuch  the  ssime  thing, 
but  scarcely,  I  think,  with  such  an  accent  of  experi- 
euce.     Xor    is  Carlyle  cousistent  iu  his  Pantheism. 


EMERSON 


225 


Ile  wiis  too  thoroughlv  impivguattMl  with  the  iiou 
atoms  of  Calvinism  to  be  quite  ejisy  iu  Pantheism. 
IIis  early  trainiug  had  implauted  in  him  what  the 
Hebrew  sjige  calls  ''the  fear  of  the  Lord."     He  be- 
lieved,  with  Emerson,  iu  the  Divine  Immanence,  but 
after  a  Hebrew  fashion.     Emersou's  way  of  putting 
thiugs  did  not  please  Carly le-"  a  gymnosophist  sit- 
ting ou  a  flowery  bauk,"  was  his  humorously  irouic 
epithet.     Aud  many  others  beside  Carlyle  felt  as  if 
Emeraou'8  essiiys  were  simply  so  much  thinly-spun 
mooulight.     After  one  of  his  lectures  the  presiding 
minister  thanked   God   that  they  liad  never  heart! 
such  transceudeutal  uouseuse  before,  aud  piiiyed  that 
they  might  never  hear  the  like  agaiu.     Enierson'8 
only  commeut  was  that  his  critic  seemed  "a  very 
plaiu-spoken,    couscieutious  man."     The  story  does 
somethiug  more  thauilhistrate  the  magnanimoiis  good 
temper  of  Emerson  ;  it  is  an  illustration  of  his  eutire 
lutellectual   sereuity.     He  had  uo  doubt  whatever 
that  he  had  read  aright  the  secret  of  the  uuiverse 
The  eutire  absence  of  dub-        in  a  miud  so  keen  as 
Emersou's  is  very  remark  He  anuounced  his 

couclusious  With  au  air  of  m  .  .uuicable  infallibility 
which  was  quite  impervious  to  logic.  It  is  quite 
characteristic  that,  while  he  loved  books,  and  was  uu- 
happy  wlien  away  from  them,  yet  they  were  his  com- 
rades  rather  than  his  counsellors.  It  may  be  doubted 
If  lie  ever  read  a  single  book  which  altered  bv  an  iota 
his  general  ideas.  He  fouud  hisown  light  sufficient  for 
him.  Greatly  as  he  loved  Carlyle,  he  learned  uothing 
new  from  him,  aud  owed  uothing  either  in  styie  or 
philosophy  to  his  teachings.  Iu  his  own  quiet  way 
he  wjis  the  most  self-poised  of  individualists,  aud  the 
firmest  of  dogmatists.     If  this  dogmatism  does  uot 


^11 


rfiÉritarilÉi 


^^^j^^H^^^. 


.^r 


Jf   ill 

'  i'  i 


■  li 


220    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PR08E 

lepel  us,  it  is  because  it  is  so  mauifestly  the  fiuit 
of  experience.  He  reports  upon  the  uuiverst'  not 
froiu  hearsay,  but  as  he  himself  has  fouud  it,  aud 
the  real  power  of  his  essjiys,  especially  over  youug 
miuds,  is  in  their  eutire  siucerity  aud  deliberate 
egoism. 

The  secret  of  the  peculiar  serenity  of  Emerson  is 
not  merely  his  Quaker  temperament,  but  his  real 
love  of  Nature.     In  a  very  charmiug  passage  he  tel  Is 
us  that  when  he  bought  his  farm  at  Coucord,  "I  did 
not  know  what  a  bargain  I  had  in  the  bluebirds, 
bobolinks,  and  thrushes,  which  were  uot  t '^arged  in 
the  bill.     As  little  did  I  guess  what  subh  -e  morn- 
ings and  snusets  I  was  buying,  what  reache'     "  /ind- 
scape,  what  lields  and  laues  for  a  tramp."     ^le  took 
au  elemental  joy  in  simple  things,  and  dwelt  close  to 
the  heart  of  Nature.     Much  of  the  sweetness  of  his 
own  temper  was  drawu  directly  from  these  habits  of 
intt^rcourse  with  syl  van  solitude.     With  health  and 
a  day,  he  characteristically  says,  he  will  make  the 
pomp  of  empire  ridiculous.    Great  cities  did  not 
attract  him  ;  the  havoc  which  commercial  life  made 
With  the  mind  distressed  him.     He  did  not  go  so 
far  as  Thoreau  in  his  doctriues  of  a  return  to  Nature, 
but  Thoreau  was  his  pupil,  and  carried  Emerson's 
ideas  to  a  logical  conclusion.     "Nature,"  he  writes, 
"stretcheth  out  her  arms  to  embrace  man  ;  oiily  let 
his  thoughts  be  of  equal  greatness.     A  virtuous  man 
is  in  unison  with  her  works,  and  makes  the  central 
figure  of  the  visible  sphere."     Here,  at  least,  was  a 
perfectly   intelligible    aud   very  practical    message. 
What  Wordsworth    did  by  his    exa^iple    aud   his 
poetry,  Emerson  also  did  in  his  own  way.     He  fur- 
nished   his   own   countrymen  with   a  much-neede<l 


EMKRSON 


227 


illustration  of  th«  hea.Uy  of  plain  living  aiul  liiijh 
thiukiug.     He  wju»  never  wealthy  ;  iu  hjs  early  career 
be  must  have  been  poor.     H.  followed  the  profe^iou 
of  a  public  lecturer  in  a  djiy  when  it  was  not  the 
well-paid  profession  that  it  uow  is.     His  books  for 
many  yeu-s  hjid  an   cxtremely  limited  circulation 
^or  W51S  Concord  the  place  of  exquisite  loveliness 
that  It  appeared  in  Emerson'8  eyes;  clearly  not  one 
of  those  rare  combinations  of  natural  beauty  which 
icconcile  a  man  to  poverty,  as  the  daily  visiou  of  the 
Ljike  Dislrict  reconciletl  Wordsworth  to  a  cottage 
But  it  contented  Emerson.     He  lived  iu  it  like  -i 
sJige;  wrote  about  it  like  a  poet.     The  philosophic 
axioms  of  Emereon   may  lose  their  force,   aud   be 
ueglected ;  it  is  not  possible  to  neglect  his  poetr> 
Ihcre  IS  a  nameless  sweetuess  and  freshness  in  all  his 
writings-a  scnse  of  the  elemental.     And  iis  the  gen- 
eral ways  of  life  bocome  moro  and  more  artificial 
and  the  general  int^-rests  of  maukiud  more  material' 
those  who  feel  the  uuspeakable  bastM.ess  of  onr  lat4 
c.vilizatiou  wiU  jissuredly  find  themselves  t..rning  to 
Emerson,  and  in  him  will  find  that  which  revives  the 
sense  of  lieanty,  invigonnites  virtue,  and  confera  heal- 
ing and  refreshment  alike  on  miud  aud  spirit 

Euerson's  style  is  one  of  great  faults  and  great 
beauties.     It  has  sometimes  been  complaiued  that  it 
IS  obscure,  but  this  is  a  conteutiou  which  cannot  be 
sustaiued.     It  Monld  be  truer  to  sjiv  that  it  is  frag- 
mentaiy,  and  therefore  gives  the  occiusioual  impres- 
sion  of  confusion.    For  this  blemish  Emersou's  habits 
of  composition  are  to  blame.     He  i-arely  worked  for 
long  in  his  study;  he  preferred  the  soiitude  of  the 
woods.     He  wsis  accustom«Mi  to  ke(>p  what  he  calh-d 
a  "Thought  Book,"  aud  this  l>ook  accompanied  him 


H^ 


22S    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLI8II  PUOSE 


-I" 


r- 


t. 


ill  his  riUubU'8.  \\'lu'ii  an  i's.siy  wa**  to  bf  wiitteu 
the  book  M'jis  scarche»!  for  material,  aud,  as  Eiiu-rson 
himself  sjiid,  hin  pMiis  wci-e  stniuj;'  togfther  like  Ixiads 
on  a  thread.  Tliis  frank  eonfession  is  entirely  oor- 
roborated  by  the  strueture  of  his  e8.sjiys.  There  is  no 
gradual  unfolding  of  thesis  and  argument ;  the  first 
sentence  is  a  paradox  as  likely  as  not.  The  para- 
graplis  do  not  grow  out  of  oue  another,  and  there  is 
little  eontinuity  in  the  thought.  But  eaeh  panigniph, 
like  the  bi^ad  upon  the  string,  has  a  partieular  lustre 
and  colour  of  its  owu.  No  writer  is  rieher  in  epi- 
gram. Whatever  we  may  tliiuk  of  the  partieular 
truth  whieh  he  is  cuforciug,  the  manner  in  which  he 
utters  it  arrests  us. 

His  felicity  of  phrase  is  as  remarkable  as  Carlyle'8 
felicity  of  epithet.  Sueh  a  phrase  as  "Hiteh  your 
wagon  to  a  star,"  has  become  the  brief  .summary  of 
all  that  is  meant  by  lofty  ideals  in  jnaetieal  action. 
Orcasionally,  too,  there  are  passjiges  of  \-ery  rare 
and  noble  eloquence.  His  meaning  is  never  in  doubt ; 
RO  far  from  being  obscure  is  he,  that  as  a  rule  he  is 
astonishingly  luininous.  Upon  the  whole  his  style 
is  one  of  the  most  stimulating  in  literaturc.  The 
worst  that  can  be  said  of  it,  that  it  coruscates  a  little 
too  much  ;  but  those  who  have  suffcred  much  from 
the  dull  tediousness  of  philosophlc  authors  will  not 
count  that  a  fault.  A  certain  viv  id  nimbleness,  some- 
tiines  reaching  restlessness,  is  charact<'ristie  of  the 
American  intellect,  and  Eniei-son  is  distinctively 
American.  But  in  his  case  there  is  so  much  sound 
scholarship,  such  l)road  sanity  and  \>  idth  of  view,  such 
innermost  serenity  of  temper,  that  his  nimbleness  of 
mind  never  declines  iiito  a  fault.  It  is  what  Carlyle 
called  it,   "soft  electricity,"  bathiug  great  heights 


fPiil 


EMERSON 


2ii9 


aud  (lepths  of  solid  exi^i-iienco.  It  is  only  a  cjiptioiis 
critieism  wliicli  will  drpm-iate  Eiiioi-son  iHJcaust;  he 
did  not  poiSMffvs  the  gitt  of  stutelinms  and  sobri«'ty 
which  characterizes  th«!  older  i)ro8e  writers  ;  the  out- 
standing  fact  is  that  he  in\  ented  a  style  of  bis  own, 
absolutely  titled  to  his  own  mode  of  thought,  thor- 
ougldy  piiiigeut,  individual,  and  o  :ginal,  and  capable 
of  luueli  dftached  brilliauce  and  real  «iloquence. 

In  spirit  Emerson  waa  never  less  thau  noble,  in 
temper  never  less  thau  hopeful.  Even  the  great 
ea^nclysm  of  the  American  War  did  not  for  au 
iustant  dim  his  hope.  It  drew  from  him  one  of  his 
uoblest  verses — 

*'  So  nigh  19  grandenr  to  our  dust, 
So  near  is  Gotl  to  man, 
When  Dnty  whispers  low,  TTioM  mu$t, 
The  youth  replies,  J  can." 

WTieu  it  was  all  over  it  was  his  also  to  say  the 
wisest  word  ahout  it:  "Everybody  has  been  wrong 
in  his  guess,  exeept  good  women,  who  never  despair 
of  au  ideal  Right.  ...  I  shall  always  respect 
war  hereafter.  The  waste  of  life,  the  dreary  havoc 
of  comfort  aud  time,  are  overpaid  by  the  vistas  it 
opens  of  Eternal  Life,  Eterual  Law,  recoustrueting 
and  upholding  Society." 

The  spirit  of  his  own  life  cannot  be  better  ex- 
pressed  thau  in  his  own  fiue  lines  :— 

"  Revere  the  Maker,  fetch  thine  eye 
Up  to  Hi8  style,  aud  iiianners  of  the  sky, 
Not  of  adamant  and  gold 
Built  He  heaveii,  stark  and  cold. 


Il 


mm 


r  II 


330    TITK  MAKERS  OF  EXOrjsir  J»I{OSE 

Bnilt  of  teare  and  sacn  ue«, 

Aud  virtue  reoohing  t<  unn  ; 

Biiilt  of  furtheranoe  a  rsuinjj, 

Not  of  spent  dewls,  hi         doing. 
House  and  tenant  go  i        ound, 
Loet  in  God,  in  Godhead  foand." 


i^i 

"      *  i 

:^.'i  is 
/  ^1' 

XVI 
JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 

B-An  April  i:i,  1818.  First  two  volumen  of  Hktory  of  England, 
from  ihe  Fall  of  Wolsei/  to  the  Defeat  nf  the  Spaninh  Armada,  pub- 
I  Med  18u« ;  completed  in  1S69.  Short  Studies  on  Greut  Nidjevta, 
eaaaya  appeuring  bdween  18«7  ah  I  1^82.  Cæmr,  a  Sketvh,  187». 
Life  of  Carlyle,  4  vola.,  la82-84.  Life  of  Krwmua,  I8l»4.  IHed 
Oet,  26,  1894. 

THE  traditiou  of  Macaulay  was  maintained, 
though  iipoii  a  mucli  inferior  scale,  by  a 
writer  of  greut  versatility  aud  romantic  iu- 
stinct,  James  Authouy  Froude.     Educated  at  West- 
minster School  aud  subaequeutly  at  Oxford,  the  sou 
of  an  Archdeacon  of  competeut  fortune,  he  may  be 
sjiid  to  have  iuherited  a  certaiu  traditional  view  of 
society  from  Mhich  he  never  wholly  frcHnl  himself. 
His  iutellect  was  eagcr  rather  thau  acute ;  he  knew 
how  to  doubt,  but  not  liow  to  doubt  men's  doubts 
away ;  he  could  discover  a  fallac',  but  ofteu  iu  ex- 
posijg  it  fell  into  a  worse  fallacy  ;  great  talent  he 
had,  aud  a  quite  uuusual  power  of  stating  old  po.si- 
tious  With  freshness  and  novtlty,  but  the  power  of 
original  thought,  aud  the  serene  temerity  of  genius 
which  thinks  for  itself,  was  dcuied  him.     If  he  was 
not  iu  the  true  sense  a  great  writer,  it  was  because  he 
was  not  in  auy  sense  a  great  man  ;  yet  his  work  pos- 
sesses  so  mauy  high  qualities  of  literature,  that  it  is 
iuipossible  to  deny  him  lank  among  the  chief  writei-s 
of  the  uineteenth  century. 
His  first  trial  of  literature  was  uufortuuate.     At 

231 


I 


amiti 


232    THE  MAK  KUS  OF  EN(iLLSlI  PItOSE 


å,y 


Oxford  hv  80OI1  caiiie  uikUt  the  intliienceof  Nuwiuaii, 
for  whoiu  he  )(role».se(l  theii  and  ulways  the  waniiLst 
iidmimtiun.  Probably  the  lK'»t  qualilleH  of  his  own 
stjie — hicidi  ,  ease  aud  e.o<|uem'e— wre  derived 
from  Newman.  Newman  set  )iiH  promising  pnpil  to 
woi'k  on  writing  some  of  the  Lioea  of  the  EngViHh 
S(tiiitH,  an  ooenpation  of  whieh  he  sooa  tired.  "St. 
Patrick  I  fonnd,"  hesays,  "once  lighted  a  tire  with 
ieieles ;  elianged  a  Weish  mamuder  i  uto  a  wolf,  and 
tloated  to  Ireluud  on  an  altar  stone.  I  thought  it 
uousense.  .  .  .  After  a  short  experiment  I  luid 
to  retreat  out  of  my  oceupation,  and  let  the  series  go 
on  without  me."  He  retreated  out  of  the  Oxford 
movemeut  and  all  vital  association  with  Newman  at 
the  same  time.  The  fact  apnears  to  be  that  he  had 
never  had  any  real  sympathy  with  the  movement ;  he 
was  of  much  too  cold  a  temperament  to  indorse  a 
l)ropaganda  of  any  sort.  A  t  heart  he  was  a  trimmer. 
He  wished  to  combiue  ratiMi.lism  with  orthodoxy, 
to  maintain  a  free  mind  on  thcological  qnestions, 
and  yet  retain  a  fellowship  whieh  imjjlied  in  its 
holder  assent  to  a  detinite  creed.  His  Nemesis  uf 
Foifli,  published  in  1848,  deals  with  these  questious. 
It  is  a  book  loug  sinee  forgotten,  and  quite  unworthy 
of  revival ;  bnt  it  has  a  eertain  biographical  interest, 
espe(*iall>  .vheu  we  remember  that  it  was  the  success 
of  this  book  whieh  first  turned  the  thoughts  of  Froude 
towards  literature  as  a  profession. 

The  Nemesis  of  Faith  wius  in  form  a  novel,  and  for 
some  time  Froude  eultivated  fiction,  bnt  without  suc- 
cess. One  of  his  stories,  The  Lieutenanf  s  Daughter, 
is  peculiarly  mavkish  in  seutiment  and  nauseous  in 
substance.  It  would  not  be  worth  mention  but  for 
the  circumslauce  that  Froude  was  tweuty-niue  when 


lfcti;.,.= 


W 

i' 

i 

1 

Mtiéia^ai^£^m,d..„iiÆ^alJ 


—  ■     '*- 


lai^a^IMi 


■■■Éiiai 


iriiMlki 


JAMES  ANTHONY   FKOlDK 


2.13 


it  Nvas  piihliMhcd,  iiu  ag<>  sit  whicii  must  rulxml  iiiiliir«'H 
liiiv*' workcd  out  th<^  fcnnciitiii^  cniditics  i>r  yoiitii. 
Iji'1't  to  hiiUHclf  it  Ih  fxfttnliiigly  «lonhtfiil  if  FroiuU^ 
would  evtT  lisiv»*  workwl  himsclt'  fn*»'  of  Ihrs»'  «tihII- 
tirs,  and  have  Imh-'  Mie  an  «'flloi<'iit  man  of  h-tteis. 
His  mind  wsih  eHHentially  imitativc  and  snscoptiblc, 
lacking  imitation,  biit  quick  to  folluw  a  path  oiM^nt^d 
by  another.  Ouce  he  had  followeil  the  iuitiative  of 
Newman,  now  he  was  to  flud  a  more  potent  master 
in  Cailyle.  It  is  eurioiis  to  note,  however,  that  he 
was  much  too  eouveutioual  iu  miud  to  discover  the 
grwitness  of  Carlyle  for  himself.  Carlyle'8  Frenvh 
Jievolnfion  came  iu  his  way,  and  he  read  it,  wonderinj; 
at  it,  and  candidly  confessing  that,  li!^^.  the  rest  of 
the  MorUl,  he  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  It 
was  John  Sterliug  who  first  exphiined  to  him  its 
signitieance,  and  led  him  to  appreciate,  in  part  at 
least,  the  greatuess  of  Carlyle.  In  part  ouly,  how- 
ever ;  for  as  we  shall  see  later,  Froude  never  formed 
a  just  estimate  of  the  man  whom  he  afterwards 
calumniated  in  the  most  mendacious  biography  of 
modern  literature.  But  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt 
that  his  appreciation  of  Carlyle,  as  far  as  it  weut, 
was  sincere.  All  that  Froude  became,  as  man  of 
lettei-s,  was  the  work  of  Carlyle.  Many  of  his  original 
faults  remained  to  the  end,  and  in  inoreased  virulency  ; 
but  whatever  there  was  of  virtue  in  the  man  aud  in 
his  writings,  he  derived  it  from  Carlyle.  Essentially 
a  man  who  needed  a  master,  who  uever  had,  nor 
could  have,  sufficient  eflBcacy  of  genius  to  start  au 
independent  course,  Froude  in  the  most  critical 
moment  of  his  life  excli-'iged  Newman  for  Carlyle, 
and  never  did  literary  man  mt»io  a  more  fortuuate 
or  fruitful  exchange. 


'  1 


Å 


tm^ 


■dl 


2:U    TIIK  MAKKUS  OF  KXCJMSII  PUOSK 


'  1 


B' 


.i 


In  isr><{  tlu'  llrnt  voiiiiiK»  of  Frnu(l«'s  lliHtori)  aj) 
pcurcil.  IIow  lar  Uir  virws  of  Caiiylr  iiiNpirni  tli«' 
vii'\VH  of  Knni<l«'  ill  his  ticutiiiciit  of  his  ^vvi\{  Un-iiir, 
it  iH  of  ctiiirHc  iiiipoNsihle  to  <i('t4'riuiii«>,  hut  it  is 
natfiiiahii»  to  Niipposc  that  Kroiuhi  ow«»l  HonicIhiiiK 
to  (Jarlylf,  aiul  wrtjiinly  more  tliati  he  vwy  acknowl- 
iHlged.  Oiii'  of  the  ivgntH  of  literatuie  iiiiwt  !m' 
that  Carlyle  did  not  hiuiself  desil  with  the  tiims  of 
Henry  VIII  aud  Elizabeth,  instead  of  giviiig  lh«' 
l¥*st  years  of  hi»  life,  and  his  powim  in  the  very  eon- 
snmmatiou  of  their  strength,  to  the  «Ireary  «tory  of 
Frnlerick  the  Great.  The  view  whieh  Fronde  took 
of  Henry'»  eharacter  was  Carlyle'»  view,  «listinctly 
announced  years  before  the  first  vohnne  of  the  ////»- 
tory  was  publisluKl.  '*  Henry,"  sjiid  Carlyle  on<'e,  in 
t'ouvera:ition  with  Sir  V.  G.  Dnffy,  "when  we  come 
to  cousider  the  eircnmstaiices  he  had  to  deal  with, 
would  be  seeii  to  be  one  of  the  Inst  kings  England 
had  ever  got.  He  had  the  right  stnlF  in  hi  ni  for  a 
king — he  knew  his  owu  niind ;  a  patient,  resolnte, 
d«>ci8ive  man,  one  could  see,  who  nnderstood  what 
he  wanted,  which  was  the  first  condition  of  snccess 
in  any  enterprise,  and  by  what  nicthod  to  bring  it 
about.  .  .  .  Ht!  wjis  a  tnie  ruler  at  the  time 
when  the  will  of  the  Lord's  Anointed  couuted  for 
something,  and  it  was  likely  that  he  did  not  regard 
himself  as  doing  wrong  in  any  of  those  thiiigs  over 
whieh  modern  simtimentality  grew  so  impatient." 
This  is  the  real  thesis  of  Froude's  iriKtori/,  elaboiated 
with  great  skill,  frequent  eloquence,  and  mneh  viva- 
<ions  energy.  The  book  is  in  every  respeet  a  brilliant 
piece  of  work.  Fn  the  art  of  word-painting  Fmude 
is  a  master.  When  he  comes  to  eertain  <'ential  epi- 
sodes, sueh  SIS  the  stoiy  of  the  Armada,  he  rises  into 


}h    i 


NtaÉiÉlli 


MnaitiHfa 


JAMi:s  ANTHONY  FUOUDK 


235 


n  HiM>('i«H  uf  (tuiy  cpic  iM)Wcr.  llt^  iiiarHhuIlH  \\\h  fucts 
With  the  ctuo  of  a  coiiNummiitu  HtuKu-uuuiiiger,  kiiowH 
liow  (u  iiivo  culuur  und  Hplcudoiir  tu  the  pap>,  in 
never  eonlUMHl  ur  dull,  work»  Kteiulily  towardH  the 
Inie  drauiatic  crisiM,  and  invariattly  leave»  uh  with 
the  iiu])retMion  that  the  pageaut  tuuld  uut  have  l)eeu 
hetter  stagt^d.  Other  cuuteiupumry  hiHtoriauH,  wuch 
as  Freenum  and  Oaitliuer,  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
problems  of  hintory  a  patieut  aud  acute  faculty  of 
invewtigation  of  whioh  Fruude  showed  hardly  a  traee  ; 
but  iu  power  of  easy,  picturestjue,  aud  dramatie 
narrative,  Froude  easily  distanced  his  rivals.  His 
teiuiierameut  is  esseutially  that  uf  the  Homantieist. 
He  is  always  in  search  of  large  effects,  pietorial  situa- 
tious,  sharp  and  striking  contrasta.  Thus,  whalever 
niay  be  said  as  to  the  truth  of  his  History,  it  is  im- 
possible to  deny  its  charm ;  history  iu  the  accuratt» 
sense  of  the  term  it  niay  not  be,  but  it  is  certaiuly 
literature. 

Iu  his  own  way,  and  according  to  his  lights,  no 
doubt  Froude  tried  to  write  accurate  history,  aud 
thought  that  he  had  done  so,  but  the  faet  of  the  mat- 
ter wius  that  his  niethods  of  work  were  much  too  hasty 
aud  slovenly  to  attain  even  moderate  accuracy  of  state- 
uunt  on  uiattei-s  where a  great  mass  of  evidence  had 
to  be  sifted.  No  one  can  expeet  absolute  accuracy  iu 
a  historiau,  but  we  have  a  right  to  expeet  the  most 
putient  aud  judicial  examinatiou  of  evidence  before 
coudusious  are  iirouounced.  Carlyle  possessed  iu  a 
degræ,  imuieasurably  beyoud  Froude,  the  art  of 
word-paiuting,  the  iustinct  uf  pictorisd  grouping,  but 
he  never  sacriuced  truth  to  eflect.  Every  student  of 
Carlyle's  life  kuows  what  iucretlible  paius  he  took  to 
get  at  the  exact  truth  about  thiugs ;  aud  thus  it  hap- 


I 


^ 


^^^ 


23G    THE  MAKEllS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 


■Vi 


É\  >'' 


i 


.4 


I)c>usthat  while  rna  ny  other  writers  have  siuce  tiJiverstHl 
the  gruuuU  he  took,  aud  the  opportuuities  of  historical 
lesearch  have  beeu  greatly  iuereased  siuce  his  day, 
scarcely  oue  of  his  facts  has  beeu  seiiously  impugned. 
Brilliaut  in  every  way  as  Carlyle'8  historical  tableaux 
aie,  yet  they  are  uot  less  brilliant  thau  veracious,  aud 
iu  this  combiuatioa  of  the  highcst  imagiuative  pow- 
ers,  With  an  infinite  capacity  of  dull,  steady  drudgery, 
of  painstaking  digging  and  delving  after  the  least 
graiu  of  authentlc  trulh,  Carlyle  is  unique. 

But  this  species  of  laborious  industry  was  not  at 
all  in  the  way  of  Froude.  Carlyle  was  esseutially  a 
student ;  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term,  Froude  was 
nothing  of  the  kind.  He  has  told  us  that  he  consulted 
400,000  references  in  the  preparatiou  of  the  History ; 
no  doubt  he  did  so,  but  with  what  degree  of  care  f 
Perhaps  the  question  is  best  answered  in  a  single  in- 
cideut.  One  of  the  greatest  figures  in  Elizabethau 
history  is  Burleigh,  and  on  one  oecasion  Froude  was 
invited  to  stay  at  Hatfield,  in  order  that  he  might  ex- 
haustively  examine  the  great  mass  of  C/Ccil  papers 
preserved  there,  aud  at  that  time  accessible  nowhere 
else.  Froude  accepted  the  invitation,  and  stayed  a 
single  day !  In  the  same  way  the  executors  of  Lord 
Btnu^onsfleld  invited  him  to  examine  the  papers  of  the 
decfased  statesman  before  writing  his  brief  biography, 
and  he  was  content  with  what  he  could  discover  in  a 
visit  extending  from  Saturday  to  Monday.  If  the 
400,000  references  for  the  History  were  gone  through 
at  this  nite,  there  is  not  much  in  the  boast  which  is 
calculated  to  jissure  the  reader  of  the  accuracy  of  the 
narrative.  But  all  that  has  beeu  written  of  Froude 
since  his  death  goes  to  prove  how  rooted  aud  invinci- 
ble  wiis  his  incapacity  of  taking  pai  ns.     Scholara  who 


?n 


MkMia 


iiÉiaÉI 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 


237 


reiul  his  vivacious  sketch  of  Cæsar  peiceivod  ut  onco 
that  he  bad  reaU  very  few  of  Cicero'»  letters,  aiul 
uone  of  thein  properly  ;  men  of  the  world,  who  knew 
the  life  aud  iustitutions  of  the  West  Indies,  discovered 
in  the  firet  pages  of  Froude'8  Oceana,  that  he  had 
never  really  seen  thiugs  for  himself,  nor  had  even 
tried  to  understand  them.  A  novel  may  be  written 
without  a  close  examination  of  facts,  so  long  as  it  is 
inberently  and  artistically  probable  j  but  history  de- 
pends  for  its  value  on  its  truth.  Froude  wrote  his- 
tory in  the  spirit  of  the  novelist.  As  long  as  thiugs 
looked  artistically  probable,  he  thought  little  of  es- 
scntial  veracity.  He  was  either  too  indolent,  or  too 
prepossessed  by  certain  views  which  ho  wished  to  up- 
hold,  or  too  indifferent  to  truth,  to  take  ordinary 
pains  to  make  the  structure  of  his  narrative  secure 
against  collapse  or  assault. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Not  to  examiue  one's  facts  is  a 
bad  thing,  but  to  pervert  them  is  a  still  worse.  There 
can  be  little  doubt  that  the  habit  of  Froude' s  mind 
was  casuistic ;  and  when  you  unite  gross  carelessuess 
with  a  manifest  determination  to  prove  a  case  at  all 
costs,  truth  is  i-apidly  reduced  to  a  minus  quantity. 
That  Froude  purposely  or  consciously  perverted  facts 
seems  improbable.  The  errors  of  a  radically  inaccu- 
rate  mind  owe  nothing  to  volition.  The  man  in  ordi- 
nary life  who  has  never  accustomed  himself  to  strict 
accuracy  of  statement  makes  raisstatemeuts  without 
the  least  sense  of  the  gravity  of  his  offeuce.  It  would 
be  unjust  to  accuse  him  of  lying  since  he  is  iucapable 
of  truth.  Every  one  knows  how  extremely  diffioult 
it  is  to  get  some  children  to  tell  the  exact  truth  upou 
a  matter  of  fact ;  eithei  by  excess  of  imagination  or 
by  lack  of  logical  faculty,  they  invariably  aud  quite 


*■   ! 

i 


■ÉiÉ 


^ 


238    THE  MAKKRS  OF  PLXGLISH  I»R()SE 


.'!■   I  ål 


1* 


m 


(i 


uncousciously  over-colour  or  distort  anythiiig  which 
tbey  report  as  fju-t.  The  same  thing  is  coustaiitly 
seeu  in  the  witness-box.  Men  who  have  lookid  upou 
the  sjune  occurrence  report  it  from  totally  divergent 
staudpoiuts.  lu  such  a  caae  no  one  accuses  the  wit- 
uess  of  direct  lying,  though  you  may  rightly  accuse 
him  of  incapacity  of  truth.  It  is  probable  that  very 
few  persons  ever  speak  exact  truth.  It  is  only  the 
highly  trained  judicial  mind  that  is  capable  of  seeing 
things  without  distortion,  and  in  casas  where  mattei-s 
of  fact  are  in  dispute,  the  last  word,  as  in  a  law-casi*, 
is  uhvays  with  the  jndge,  because  the  judicial  mind  is 
a  mind  disciplined  to  the  highest  degree  in  habits  of 
precision.  But  Froude's  i  utel  leet  was  not  judicial : 
habits  of  precise  thought  ho  had  never  formed,  and 
consequently  the  power  of  precise  statement  was  not 
possible  to  him. 

These  are  no  doubt  grave  accustitions,  but  they  are 
capable  of  ample  proof.    A  capital  instance  of  Froude'8 
habitual  inaccuraey  is  his  TJ/e  of  Erasmxis.     This  is 
one  of  his  most  delightful  productions,  judged  mcrdy 
from  the  literary  standpoint.     It  has  all  the  romantic 
ccrvc  jind  frcshness  of  a  novel,  and  the  picture  of 
Erasnius  hiniself  is  siugularly  lifclike.     If  the  book 
piirported  to  be  what  Charles  Reade's  famous  novel 
The  Cloistcr  and  tfw  Ilearth  is— a  romance  of  the  times 
of  Erasmus,  it  would  dcserve  the  highest  praise  ;  but 
si8  serious  history  it  is  opcn  to  the  gravest  criticism. 
Take,  for  «'xample,  the  translations  of  the  letters  of 
Enismi         No  one  can  read  them  without  becoming 
conscidi,     .f  the  note  of  cxtreme  "  modem  i  ty  "  which 
distingnish«'s  them.     ^fuking  allowance  for  Iheme  and 
matter,  they  are  just  such  epistles  as  might  havebeen 
written  by  a  gay,  brilliant,  seholarly,  cynical  man  of 


mmmmmgtiattm^aMiååimåmåm 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FllOUDE 


239 


the  world  iu  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Eveii  the  style  is  moderu ;  the  stmteiiees  are  short, 
sharp,  full  of  antithest'^,  so  that  the  ordinary  reader 
with  a  slight  kuowledge  of  the  classics  will  wonder 
how  snell  a  style  was  possible  iu  a  language  so  pou- 
derous  and  inflexible  a«  the  Latin— especially  the 
Latin  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  explanation  is  quite 
simple ;  the  letters  have  beeu  rewritten  by  Froude. 
Mr.  Lilly,  himself  a  competent  scholar,  says  that  iu 
these  "  trauslations "  he  fouud  ou  every  page  "dis- 
tortious" — more  or  less  gross,  sometimes  very  gross— 
of  Erasmus'  meaning ;  things  attributed  to  him 
directly  contrary  to  what  he  really  wrote ;  things  of 
which  the  Latiu  presents  uo  trace  at  all.  It  is  pre- 
cisely  this  distortiou  of  meaning  of  which  Froude's 
eritics  have  complained.  Mr.  Lilly  calls  Froude  -u 
"  unscrupulous  advocate."  It  would  be  nearer  the 
truth  to  call  him  an  unscrupulous  artist. 

A  work  which  lies  better  within  the  er.  ical  com- 
petence  of  the  ordinary  reader  is  Froude's  biography 
of  Carlyle.  In  this  case  the  groundwork  of  fact  is 
within  conunon  knowledge.  How  far  Froude  misin- 
terpreted  Enismus  is  a  question  for  scholars  ;  how  far 
he  misinterpreted  Carlyle  is  a  question  which  can  be 
referred  to  niauy  persons  who  knew  Carlyle  much 
more  intiraately  thau  he  did. 

There  cjin  be  no  doubt  about  the  verdiet.  There  is 
scarcely  one  cardinal  fact  about  Carlyle's  life  which 
is  rightly  stated  in  Froude's  biogniphy.  Thus  he 
sjieaks  coustantly  of  Jane  Welsh  as  au  heiress ;  her 
uio(U«t  fortune  was  about  dli200  per  annum,  which 
she  did  not  eujoy  until  after  her  mother's  death. 
He  speaks  of  her  marriage  with  Carlyle  as  an 
"unheard-of  viésaUiance"'  which  was  the  '*S(?ofiF  of 


mmmk 


240    THK  MAKP:RS  OF  ENGLLSH  PROSE 


'^f 


pl 


i' 

m 


Etliiilmrgh  sofiety  "  :  Jaue  Welsh  was  uuknown  iu 
Eiliiiburgh  .sot-iety  ;  ber  marriage  wiis  uot  discusst'd 
iu  it :  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  couutry  doctor,  and 
her  only  claim  to  distiuction  was  that  she  umrried 
Carlyle.     He  speaks  oi"  Craigeuputtock  as  a  place  of 
dreary  bauishmeut,   where    a  delicate  womau  was 
tortiu-ed  by  th3  whirns  of  a  brutal  husbaud  ;  the  facts 
are  that  the  Carlyles  went  to  Craigeuputtock  with 
the  full  assent  of  Mi-s.  Carlyle's  mother,  they  neither 
of  them  i-egarded  it  as  bauishmeut,  they  lived  upou 
delightful  teruis,  they  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  Craigeu- 
liuttock  life,  aud  never  made  serious  complalnt  of  it. 
He  speaks  of  the  Chelsea  life  as  though  its  chief 
chai'acteristic  were  iucessaut  bickeriug,  varied  by 
hot  explosious  of  anger  on  the  part  of  Carlyle,  all  of 
which  wtis  meekly  borne  by  a  drudging,  patient  wife  ; 
the  fact  was  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  the  least  patient 
of  womeu,  thiii  what  Froude  took  for  bickeriug  was 
merely  the  exchauge  of  those  pleasaut  ironies  aud 
railleries  which  are  not  uncommou  between  brilliaut 
people  who  love  oue  auother,  aud  that,    s  the  pub- 
lished    cx)rre8pondence    of  husband   aud  wife  con- 
dusively  proves,  no  persons  ever  loved  each  other 
more  teuderly  thau  these  two.     He  draws  a  tragic 
picture  of  Carlyle\s  remorse  for  his  wife  afler  her 
death  ;  the  fact  is,  that  the  chief  passage  on  which  all 
this  fiue  draniatic  situation  is  based  is  oue  in  which 
Carlyle,  with  that  morbid  sensitiveness  comu.DU  to 
bereavei  love,  searches  his  memory  to  discover  how 
he  might  have  behaved  more  kiudly  to  the  dead,  aud 
can  discover  nothing  woi-se  thau  this,  that  he  ouc« 
did  uot  enter  a  milliner's  shop  with  her  when  she 
went  to  buy  a  bonnet,  although  by  her  glance  he  saw 
that  she  would  have  l)een  pleased  had  he  doue  so ! 


v'      . 


ttMfl^MI 


m^mm 


Émm 


JAMES  AMIIONY  FilJUDE 


241 


But  it  is  impossible  in  a  paragrapu  to  unravel  all  the 
mystificatious,  refute  all  the  caluumies,  correct  all  the 
distortious  of  thia  most  mcndacious  of  biographies. 
Eveu  in  the  mere  printiiig  of  docuraents  and  letters 
Ihe  errors  are  beyoud  belief.     In  one  letter  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle's  which  describes  her  life  at  Craigenputtock, 
there  ai-e  eighty  errors  of  the  press  in  filly-eight  lines. 
J*rofes8or  Norton,  one  of  the  most  careful  editors  of 
Carlyle's  letters,  has  shown  that  in  a  biography  of 
nineteen  hundred  pages,  the  errors  greatly  exceed  the 
uumber  of  the  pages.     Phrases  and  incidents  are  con- 
stautly  misreported.    The  phrase ' '  gey  ill  to  live  wi' , ' ' 
of  which  so  much  is  made,  should  be  "gey  ill  to  deal 
wi' "  (mothi!.'8  allocution  to  me  ouce,  in  some  uu- 
reasonable  moment  of  mine,  says  Carlyle),  and  in  its 
authentic  form,   and  with  Carlyle' s  comment,   the 
iuipressiou  is  totally  changed.     Episodes  which  were 
real  ly  humorous,  and  were  so  felt  and  described  by 
Carlyle    and    his    wife,    are   related    with    intense 
solemnity  as  proofs  of  the  foregone  conclusion  that 
Carlyle  was  too  dense  to  apprehend,  too  insensitive 
to  sympathize  with  the  iufirmities  of  his  wife.     If  the 
book  were  a  novel,  we  may  say  again,  as  we  said  of 
the  lifeof  Erasmus,  itwould  be  admirable ;  but  as  the 
serious  biography  of  a  very  great  man  it  is  wholly 
disgraccful  to  its  author,   a  monument  of  slovenly 
book-making,  bad  taste,  and  unconscious  mendacity. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for  Froude'8 
farne  if,  after  all,  he  had  stuck  to  the  romantic  novel. 
But  even  when  all  deductious  are  made— and  with  no 
writer  of  the  nineteenth  ccntury  are  the  deductious  so 
many  and  so  grave— it  must  be  admitted  that  Froudt''s 
place  in  literature  is  cousiderable.     Posterity  forgives 
much  to  the  stylist,  aud  Froude  was  a  stylist.     In 


242    THE  MAKEllS  OF  ENGLISII  PROSE 


ir 


matters  of  ta«t  lie  wus  slovenly,  but  nirely  so  iu  style. 
He  had  u  quite  geuuiue  seuse  of  the  greatness  of 
England,  and  hence  there  is  sincerity  as  well  as  epic 
beauty  and  glow  iu  his  narratives.     Nor  was  he  des- 
titute  of  convictious ,  he  believed  in  the  fundamentals 
of  Protestantism,  and  in  the  main  he  apprehended 
them  rightly.     Of  all  his  writings,  the  ShoH  Studien 
on  Great  Subjeds  is  the  most  popular,  and  it  is  a  de- 
served  popularity.    In  the  historieal,  or  semi-his- 
toricai  essay,  he  was  at  his  best.     Nothiug  was  more 
cougenial  to  his  art  than  vignette-painting ;  brief, 
vivid,  swiftly-etched  portraits  of  men,  descriptious  of 
sea-iights,  or  records  of  manners.    These  vignettes, 
at  once  delicate  aud  delightful,  are  appareutly  pro- 
duced  without  effort,  aud  this  is  one  of  the  chief  ele- 
ments of  their  charm.     Iu  luciditj',  ease,  life,  move- 
ment,   aud  a  certaiu  unstrained  felicity,   Froude'8 
style  is  remarkable,  aud  as  loug  as  style  is  valued, 
Froude  is  sure  of  his  audience.     If  the  sole  aim  of 
literature  were  to  give  pleasure,  Froude  might  claim 
the  highest  place  among  modem  writers  ;  but  iu  the 
species  of  work  which  he  uudertook,  truth  rauks 
higher  thau  artistic  felicity,  aud  it  is  his  imperfoct 
upprehension  of  truth  which  spoils  his  farne.     If  we 
have  charity  enough  to  make  due  allowauce  for  this 
iutirmity,  we  may  still  find  it  possible  to  nink  him,  if 
not  With  the  great  writers,  yet  amoug  the  chief ;  if 
not  amoug  the  masters,  yet  at  a  great  height  above 
the  mere  professiouals  ;  if  not  among  those  who  have 
added    something    to    the  world' s  thought,   or  iu- 
vigourated  the  world's  life,  yet  amoug  those  who,  by 
virtue  of  a  fine  style,  have  added  something  to  the 
treasures  of  the  lauguage,  aud  much  to  the  pleasures 
of  literatui"e. 


xvn 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

Bom  in  London,  Feb.  8,  1819.  Took  hia  degree  at  Oxford,  1842. 
Firat  volutne  of  Modern  Paintera  published,  1843.  Seven  Lampa  of 
Architedure,  1849.  ITie  Utonea  of  Venice,  1851-53.  The  Tim 
Patha,  1854.  ne  Elementa  of  Dratring,  1857.  The  Elementa  of 
Perapective,  1859.  Among  hia  tnoat  popular  amaller  booka  are: 
The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  Seaame  and  The  Liliea,  The  Queen  of  the 
Air,  Ethica  of  the  Dust,  Until  thia  Laat,  which  he  hoa  called  hia 
bent  work.  Fora  Cia  riger  a,  a  aeriea  of  letter  a,  publiahed  with  index, 
1887.    Died  20th  Jan.,  1900,  at  Brantwood,  Coniaton. 

IT  is  the  prophetic  force  of  Carlyle  which  is  his 
most  remarkable  quality,  as  we  have  seen,  and 
the  secret  of  his  abiding  iutluence :  it  is  also 
the  primal  and  distinctive  gift  of  Ruskin.     In  poetry, 
Wordsworth  and  Shelley  rep  -  ient  this  force ;  in  his- 
tory,   Carlyle;   in  social  economics,    Ruskin.     The 
prophet  is  the  summed-up  soul  and  conscience  of  a 
community,   the   emblem   and   the   fouutain  of  its 
moral  life.     He  derives  nothing  from  convention; 
he  spcaks  out  of  his  own  strength  and  origiuality  of 
nature,  with  the  vehemence,  aud  even  anger,  of  great 
couvictions,    and  with   an   amplitude   of  utterauce 
which  scorns  details  in   its  passion  for  principles. 
It  is  above  all  things  his  business  to  Hee;  then  to 
speak  of  what  he  sees  with  uufaltering  sincerity, 
addressing  himself  to  his  fellows  in  such  a  way  as  to 
reveal  to  them  their  own  deficieucies ;  Tmally  to  iu- 
spire  in  them  a  desire  of  reformation,  and  of  all 
noble  progress  and  accomplishmeut.     This  was  the 
lifflong  niissiou  of  Ruskin. 

243 


J 


II 


J'.ii 


244    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENCJLISH  PllOSE 

It  wiM,  howfver,  a  inission  very  much  miwippre- 
hended.  Tolstoi  hiuj  amrined  that  Kiiskin  is  oiie  of 
the  greatest  men  of  the  ajje,  aud  hsus  Htiid  that  it 
paiued  him  to  uotice  that  English  ptople  general  ly 
were  of  a  different  opinion.  The  faet  of  the  nmtter 
is  that  England  has  never  quite  known  how  to  take 

Kiiskiu. 

He  presents  a  chaiacter  of  so  many  subtleties  and 
variations,  so  tremulously  poised  between  common 
sense  aud  eccentricity,  so  clear  and  flrm  in  outline, 
yet  touched  with  such  deeeptive  lights  and  shadows, 
and  capable  of  sueh  extniordinary  transforniations, 
that  average  opinion  hm  preferred  to  aecept  him  Jis 
a  great  stylist  rather  than  a  great  man.     He  is  by 
turns  reactiouary  aud  progressive,  simple  and  shrewd, 
a  mystic  and  a  man  of  practical  afifair.     He  has 
bewildered  men  by  the  very  brilliance  of  his  versa- 
tility.     No  sooner  has  the  world  owned  him  as  the 
prince  of  art-eritics  than  he  sots  np  as  the  exponent 
of  a  new  politieai  economy.     He  will  show  us  how 
to  weave  cloth  honestly  as  well  as  to  draw  tru.^  , 
how  to  bnild  character,  as  a  matter  of  greater  import 
even  than  the  building  of  a  Venice ;  aud  he  who  is 
an  authority  on  Botticelli  must  ueeds  also  be  an  au- 
thority  on  drains.     He  links  together  in  the  strangest 
fashion  the  remotest  things— philosophy  and  agri- 
culture,  theology  and  sanitation,  the  manner  of  a 
man's  life  and  the  quality  of  his  pictures.     It  is  this 
very  varioty  and  exulHuanee  of  mind  which  has  kept 
the  fstinuite  of  his  genius  low  among  his  countrymen. 
They  have  not  been  able  to  foUow  the  nimblenoss  of 
his  thought,  and  to  perceive  that,  eccentric  as  it 
seems,  it  moves  in  a  precisely  ordered  orbit.     The 
last  thing   that  the  Euglish  leader  would  say  of 


il 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


245 


Ruskiu  is  that  he  sees  life  stesulily,  aud  he  st-es  it 
wliole  ;  yct  that  is  lh(^  very  tliiiij;  that  Tolstoi  wouhl 
Kiy  of  hiiu,  and  he  wouhi  lukl  that  thereiu  lies  his 
claim  to  be  a  grcat  man. 

And  in  sueh  a  contention  Tolstoi  wonUl  Ix^  right; 
the  cardiuai  fact  about  Kuskin  is  that  he  sees  life 
steadily  and  stH's  it  whole.  This  is  the  explauatiou 
«>f  the  ininuMist^  variety  of  theme  iu  his  writings ;  it 
Sluings  from  width  of  \  -sion.  If  he  had  seeu  life 
only  in  some  oue  speeial  aspect,  aa,  for  example,  in 
its  relatiou  to  art  aloue,  m  hich  is  commouly  supposed 
to  be  his  oue  fuhction,  the  critics  would  at  onee  have 
known  how  to  rank  him.  There  would  have  been  uo 
hesitation  jus  to  the  plaee  that  was  his  by  right.  But 
wheii  he  links  art  with  morality,  when  he  sets  him- 
self  to  the  discovery  of  the  priuciples  by  whieh  art  is 
great,  aud  finds  them  to  be  also  the  only  verified 
priuciples  by  whieh  life  is  also  great,  theu  criticism 
becomes  purbliud  and  embarrassed.  It  wjis  pre- 
pared  to  praise  the  critic  of  art,  but  the  critic  of  life 
is  a  very  different  matter.  Heuce  there  arises  the 
uatural  teudency  ou  the  part  of  the  reader  to  regard 
the  opinions  of  Ruskiu  as  eceeutric,  but  their  ex- 
pmssiou  as  perfect— to  value  him  as  a  master  of  liter- 
ary  expit«sion,  but  not  as  a  teacher— to  agree,  iu 
point  of  fact,  that  he  is  a  great  writer,  but  to  deny 
the  contention  of  Tolstoi  that  he  is  a  great  man.  It 
is  only  going  a  step  further  to  say  of  him,  as  it  was 
sjiid  of  Goldsmith,  who  "wrote  like  an  angel  but 
talked  like  poor  Poll,"  that  Ruskiu  writos  nonsense, 
but  writes  it  beautifully.  That  this  is  the  general 
opinion  of  English  readei-s,  uo  oue  would  veuture  to 
say ;  but  having  regard  to  the  geueral  praise  of  the 
beauty  of  his  style,  aud  the  geueral  coutempt  of  the 


1 


240    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 


II 


(i  i 


I        M   ' 


Hoclal  priuciples  he  euunciat««,  one  eau  aee  without 
«Umcttlty  what  it  18  Tolstoi  lueaut  wheu  he  cal  led 
him  a  great  mau,  aud  deplored  that  hi»  count.ymen 
helfi  a  different  opiuion. 

The  personal  history  of  Ruskin  is  the  history  of 

his  writings.     No  yi)uth  ever  began  life  with  less 

likelihood  of  prophetic  development.     He  was  the 

petted,  if  not  spoiled,  child  of  wealthy  parents.     He 

begius  his  loug  use  of  the  pen  by  the  production  of 

merely  pretty  and  conventional  poems.     He  writ** 

with  the  certainty  of  parental  praise,  and  without  the 

fear  of  parental,  or  any  other,  criticism.     He  has 

abeolutely  no  acquaintauce  with  the  hard  facts  of 

life,  such  as  dro  ve  the  irou  deep  into  the  soul  of 

Carlyle,  aud  taught  him  to  become  both  law  and 

impulse  to  himself.     No  youth  ever  stood  in  great*'r 

danger  of  a  life  of  mere  dilettanteism.     There  was 

no   urgency  to  win  his  bread  laid  upon  him,   no 

special  preparatiou  for  any  profession,  no  diligent 

training  with  a  view  to  the  toils  or  the  prizes  of  a 

career.    His  chief  tastes  are,  a  love  of  Nature,  care- 

fuUy  fed  by  early  and  extensive  travel ;  a  love  of 

books,  developed  by  the  best  examples ;  aud  a  love 

of  art,  which  his  possession  of  means  euabled  him  to 

gratify.     We  do  not  gather  from  any  record  of  his 

eaily  life  which  we  possess  any  sense  of  great  robust- 

uess  either  of  mind  or  body.     His  youth  was  threat- 

ened  by  consumptiou,  and  Lis  mind  was  delicate  aud 

sensitive  rather  thau  profound  or  energetic.    There 

is  even  the  trace  of  effemiuacy  in  this  early  Ruskin, 

the  quite  uatural  and  innocent  effemiuacy  of  a  child- 

hood  sheltered  from  the  rt    ^h  wiuds  of  life,  and  of  a 

yonth  that  flowers  into  mauhood,  not  by  the  conquest 

of  u  ban-eu  soil,  but  by  the  sedulous  assistance  of 


fl  n 


JOHX  RUSK IX 


2é7 


«'xotic  liorticulture.  As  oompareU  with  Carlyle,  with 
w  hom  hu  Btuiids  iiiuMt  clo8ely  aMtiociated,  Kusk  in 
jin>w«  ill  u  huthoust',  whih;  Curlyle  is  u  product  of 
M  il«l  laoor  aud  bleak  hillside.  The  ouv  is  the  ehild 
of  wculth,  the  other  of  jmverty  ;  the  one  hii8  a  nature 
rich  aud  varietl,  tiie  other  remaius  to  the  last  steru 
and  uarrow  i\s  the  land  tbat  bore  him.  Auy  mure 
unlikely  euvirouuient  for  a  prophet  thau  Buskiu'8 
it  would  be  difiieult,  and  jærhaps  impossible,  to 
i  mag  ine. 

But  one  gift  Kuskiu  had— the  rare  aud  superb  gift 
of  fearless  siucerity,  aud  it  wsis  this  gift  that  saved 
him  from  the  perils  of  dilettauteism  aud  became  the 
duminaut  force  in  the  shaping  of  his  life  aud  genius. 
He  had  also  a  mind  of  the  keenest  aualytic  quality, 
and  au  imagiuation  alike  verile  aud  sensitive.  It 
wiis  natural  that  in  such  au  enviroumeut  aa  his,  his 
genius  should  fix  itself  first  of  all  npon  the  study  of 
art.  What  wtus  art!  Wjis  it  men?ly  a  pleasiiut 
adornment  of  luxurious  life,  or  was  it  in  itself  au 
exiM-essiou  of  life  f  Was  its  true  aim  pleasure  or 
truth  t  Ruskiu  speedily  deeided  that  art  wsus  serioua 
aud  not  frivolous,  that  it  h.ad  a  vital  conneetion  with 
national  character,  and  that  its  one  grøat  missiou 
was  truth.  He  began  to  tr.iin  himself Mith  infinite 
industry  aud  iissiduity,  that  he  might  l)e  in  a  position 
to  judge  of  art  with  justice  and  knowledge.  He 
resolved  to  be  led  by  no  tniditions,  but  simply  to 
allow  his  siucerity  of  temper  unimp<'ded  play,  and 
to  abide  by  the  result.  The  discovery  of  the  germ 
iu  which  all  his  future  teacliiiig  of  art  lay  was  made 
almost  by  accident.  He  had  been  taught  in  sketch- 
ing  foliage  to  general ize  it,  aud  to  arrange  it  by 
arbitrary   rules  and  on  an  artificial  uiethod.     One 


248    TIIK  MAKKUS  OF  i:X'JLl8II  PROSE 


i)i 


9m 


H    1 


«lay  he  hkftchetl  lV>r  liiniw  If  n  friHSHU^m  with  i  vy 
IravoM  uiwn  it,  uiid  iii.stiiiijly  nnfivwl  "howinurli 
fliuT  it  wiwsw  u  piirt'  ot'«lv8i};ii  lian  my  cuiivfiitioiial 
n'arrangemeiit  would  b*-."  All  iJu  riiU'.sof  artificial 
art  iu  wliich  he  hml  iMfii  tr  .  >.  ;.eriMlM'd  in  that 
Mimple  (liHcovery.  He  hjiw  ti  u  l'ut'  the  oiily  nile 
of  iiuy  importance  to  the  artist  ,  <  Hesiufetv  with 
Nature,  and  take  her  as  . !,  ■  y  ,  ,.jther  r.iMUally 
Khuieiiig  at  her 'etlerts,'  iioi  «li- !>   !i 'luuriiig  at  her 


\y.iiin  with  the  iiitention  of  i 


. o>  ,.,j.^  h'h'  Mi     liug 


them  iuto  8oiuethiii|,'  lM'tter,  I  a.  i.ihiii'.-  ' i^.  all  iu 

all.  On  the  other  hand,  1..  v.rcic  >  h  yournelf, 
knowing  what  you  truly  adini  e  an»;  i»:<  uting  that, 
refusiug  the  hypocrisy  of  any  '<r\:rA  style'  or 
'high  art,'  just  a»  inuch  jis  jou  refuse  U>  pander  to 
vulgar  tiiMtes.  Aud  then  vitiil  art  is  produccd,  and, 
if  the  worknian  Im'  a  nuin  of  givut  powere,  great  art.*' 
il<'  had  fi»und  a  dotuain  which  hitherto  no  prophet 
liad  claimed  or  touched.  The  mere  painting  of  pic- 
tures,  whieli  to  men  of  u  narrowi-r  mind,  a  less  re- 
liiKHl  training,  or  a  more  IMiritan  temiMT,  might 
have  seemed  a  suiKMlluity  of  luxuri<ms  life,  with- 
oat  relation  to  the  moreserionsprineiplcsof  conduct 
or  the  progn^ss  of  society,  he  pereeivetl  to  be  an  es- 
s<'ntial  element  of  life  and  an  infallihle  witness  to 
ehiiracter.  Ile  had  discovered  "  that  urt,  no  less  than 
other  spheres  of  life,  had  its  heroes  ;  that  the  main 
spring  of  their  energy  was  Sincerity,  aud  tUe  hurden 
of  their  utterance  Truth." 

Iu  its  moral  luspects  this  principle  is  but  a  redis- 
covery  of  the  prineiple  of  Milton,  that  a  true  poet 
must  make  his  life  a  poem.  It  s(mn(Ls  a  common- 
])Iaee,  only  we  have  ne«><l  to  remember  thai  nothing 
is  so  original  as  a  eomm<mp!aee  wlien  it  is  geiniinely 


mi 


i  ii 


jonx  ursKiN 


240 


lielievwl.     Bilt  it  wa»  uot  »  oommoiiphiw  as  Husk  ln 
iHtrml  it,  «ifiM^r  to  himwif  or  tln>  world  lu^souRlit  to 
i iwt nut ;  80  fur  inuii  tbis  wiw  it,  thai  it  wsw  iVIt  to 
\m'  tlje  fUuuciutHui  of  a  n«'w  uiitl  revolutioiiary  prin- 
ciiilf.     Art  wiM  ill  thorns  iluys  in  peril  of  iH-comiug 
a  mere  handicnift.     ItM  rules  were  aH  the  law.s  of  the 
MeUcH  aud  Persiau»,  whith  altered  uot.     Giveu  so 
luauy  riiUif*,  you  piodueed  a  pieture  with  the  luatlie- 
imitit-ai  ceitaiiity  l»y  whicli  Iwo  aud  two  make  four. 
Mi-ilifH-iv  pictureH  were  produeeil  iu  eudlens  projji-eH- 
sioii,  wuli  ji8  Jike  to  ejwh  Jt«s  though  tli«'y  had  Uhmi 
turiied  tmt  of  a  tUctory,     Tlie  greatt-st  iuul  moHt  iu- 
81)iied  artist  of  his  day.  Turner,  wsus  f  he  ohj«H't  of  rau- 
corous  ridioule,  beeaus.-  he  wjis  outrojring  tin  p«»<lantic 
traditious  of  artitirial  pieture-making.     Kuskin  r»*- 
called  men  to  Nature  iu  art  as  Woi-dswoith  did  in 
p(H'try.     He  laid  down  the  nile  that  it  was  the  busi- 
ness of  the  artist  to  Htndy  Nature  with  humhleness 
and  doeility,   "rejectiug  nofhing,  seleeting  nothing, 
and  sconiing  nothing."     He  laid  down  the  yet  hard«'r 
rule  tliat  thf  clianuter  of  tlie  artist  hsis  more  to  do  with 
the  makinj,'  ..f  his  art  tlian  tlie  dettm-ss  of  his  hand  ; 
tliat  a  pirtiii»'  is  flie  re<'ord  of  a  soul,  astrnly  asu 
soine  fi-.ijimeni  of  natnial  phenoiuena  ;  the  rule  of  Mil- 
ton, in  faet,  that  the  true  poem  is  the  produet  of  the 
true  lift',  and  that  great  art  is  impossible  to  the  man 
of  nuuii  .soul.     On  thos«'  two  pri  i<'ipl<-,s  all  the  art 
criti<'ism  <.f  Ku.skin  is  ba.sed.     The  principle  of  the  le- 
turn    to   NatuH'  made  him  the  ehampion  of  Turner 
against   the  worhl ;  and  later  on,  le<l  him  to  the  di 
covery  of  the  pre- Raphae  lite.-,    tid  the  eounsel  "l  . 
pai  ti  things  astluy  pr.)bably  did  look  and  h.niuen, 
not  sus,  by  the  rules  of  art  developwl  under  Rjipiiael, 
they  mi<>ht  be  snpposeil.  gracefully,  delieiously    oi 


250    TUE  MAKKRS  OF  EXGLISH  PROSK 


f 


•(f 


sublimely,  to  huve  lijippene<l."  The  priuciple  of 
chiuacter  as  the  true  seeret  of  art  led  hira  to  the  niucli 
witler  field  of  his  later  literary  ]alM)urs,  aud  the  fulfill- 
meut  of  his  true  propheti(5  missiou. 

I  liave  jussociateil,  aud  in  part  coutiasted,  Kuskiu 
with  Carlyle,  aud  it  is  a  eoutrast  which  he  himself 
sauctious,  since  lie  hjis  declared  that  Carlyle  was  his 
master,  aud  that  all  his  thiukiug  h<is  beeu  coloured  by 
Carlyle'8  strouger  thought.  At  lirst  sight  the  eoiu- 
parisou  seeuis  uusustaiued  aud  impossible,  for  the 
diflfereuces  betweeu  the  two  meu  ai-e  clear  to  the  most 
casual  observatiou.  The  geuius  of  Kuskiu  is  subtle, 
while  Carlyle  lacks  subtlety  ;  the  style  of  Carlyle  is 
chaotic,  while  Ruskiu's  is  polished  to  the  utmost 
uicety  of  exi>ressiou  ;  Carlyle  despised  ait,  aud  Kuskiu 
adored  it ;  Carlyle  is  above  all  thiugs  a  humourist, 
while  Kuskiu  has  wit  aud  stitire,  but  little  humour. 
Esich  ha«  vsist  powers  of  puguacity  ;  but  Carlyle  huris 
the  thunderbolt,  while  Kuskiu  wields  the  rapier. 
Oue  hjus  the  euergy  of  a  primeval  mau,  aud  his  limi- 
tatious ;  the  other  is  the  fiue  produet  of  a  special 
oulture.  Yet  lu  uioral  temper  they  are  alike,  aud 
their  criticism  of  life  agrees.  Each  teaehes,  as  a  fuu- 
dameutal  truth,  that  the  first  dnty  of  mau  is  to  take 
care  of  facts,  aud  that  priuciples  will  tsike  care  of 
themselves.  Esich  delights  iu  broad  aud  vivid  geu- 
eralizatiou.  Each  is  iu  vioh'ut  autagonism  to  the 
maiu  treud  of  the  age,  aud  states  the  grouud  of  his  re- 
volt with  violeuce.  It  was  by  the  mere  accideut  of 
euvirouuient  that  Kuskiu  speut  the  first  eagerness  of 
his  gt^uius  ou  a  tlicuie  that  Carlyle  never  could  rcgsud 
jusserious;  criticism  of  art  wjis  from  the  very  first, 
with  him,  criticism  of  lifc  ;  and  ;us  his  genius  grew, 
urt  fell  behiud  him,  aud  life  became  uu)ie  aud  uu)re. 


lÉH 


JOHN  RUSK  IX 


251 


How  Kiiskin  i)rcsu'hed  the  gospel  of  sincerity  with  a 
force  iuferior  ouJy  lo  Cailyle'8,  aud  with  a  penetrating 
lM'auty  of  phrajst;  all  his  owu,  we  shall  see  jis  we  turn 
to  his  works.  lu  the  uieautime  we  should  remeuiber 
that,  however  wroug-hesuled  he  may  seem  to  those 
who  do  uot  agree  with  him,  he  practieed  his  priu- 
ciples,  aud  maiutaiued  from  first  to  hist  au  uncompro- 
mising  siucerity.  He  chauipioued  Turuer,  aud  bought 
his  piclures,  Mheu  Turuer  was  utterly  neglected  by 
both  the  patrou  aud  the  public.  He  praised  work, 
aud  no  more  laborious  life  thau  his  has  beeu  livnl 
among  us.  He  iusists  ou  a  mastery  of  facts,  aud  uo 
artist  ever  put  himsi>lf  through  a  more  strenuous  dis- 
cipliue  to  fatrts  thau  Kusk  in,  before  he  eonsidered 
himself  competeut  to  pronounce  judgment  ou  the 
humblest  picture.  He  a<lvocated  a  wise  simpiicity  of 
life,  aud  few  lives  were  uiore  gracefully  austere  thau 
his.  No  duty  has  been  too  humble,  i  f  commendeil  by 
a  seuse  of  right ;  uo  generosity  too  gi-eat,  if  it  8«'rvetl 
a  wise  purpose  or  a  public  need.  It  is  the  least  pnit 
of  his  benefactions  that  of  the  £200,000  left  him  by 
his  father  every  penny  wiis  given  away.  But  he  gave 
what  is  more  thau  money — himself,  his  genius,  sym- 
pathy,  and  service,  sis  a  willing  s;icrifice  to  his  couutry- 
meu  ;  and  thus  the  gospel  of  sincerity  prodaimed  in 
his  writiugs  has  beeu  made  still  more  beautiful  aud 
convinciug  by  his  life. 


'is 


'li 


XVIII 
THE  TEACHING  OF  RUSKIN 

TO  anive  at  aii  estimate of  Ruskiii'»  tempera- 
meut  is  ejusy  ;  of  the  natuitj  and  scopeof  bis 
teaeliing  and  philosophy  mueh  may  he  said. 
In  his  ait-critieisni  we  have  seen  tliat  Rusk  in  lays 
doAVM  the  gmit  priuciple  that  sincerity  is  the  maiu- 
spiing  of  the  artisfs  energy,  and  the  burden  of  his 
niessjige  is  tiuth.  It  may  be  said  that  such  a  definition 
preeisely  expresses  his  owu  temper.  Bnt  this  is  by 
no  means  an  inelusive  definition.  He  iusists  also 
With  Keats,  that  truth  is  beauty,  beauty  is  truth ;  and 
that  the  true  artist,  while  not  ignoring  the  facts  of 
ugliness,  will  feel  his  passion  going  out  perpetually 
towards  the  fairest  forms  and  richest  aspects  of  things. 
And  it  follows  still  further  that  if  truth  is  beauty, 
tlien  falsehood  is  ugliness  ;  t  nd  wherever  there  exist 
things  that  are  repulsive  aud  disgustiug,  it  isbeeause 
of  some  outnige  on  truth,  or  some  fundamental  error 
which  an  exaeter  conception  of  truth  would  have 
prevented. 

It  nee<ls  no  great  wit  to  see  that  such  a  conclusiou 
as  this  involves  every  species  of  social  and  moral 
question.  Let  it  be  applied  in  the  direction  of  art 
its<»lf,  and  we  perceive  at  ouce  that  where  ve  have  a 
weakly  sensjitiona!  or  a  morally  degraded  art— where 
we  have  even  less  than  this,  an  art  which  is  not  indtHHl 
a  mora)  oflfence,  but  is  artificial  and  mechanical,  des- 
titute  of  high  imagiuation  and  feeling,  wrong  in  its 
ideals  and  misguided  in  its  niethods— it  is  siniply  bc- 

252 


THE  TKACHIN(i  OF  KU.SKIN 


253 


cause  of  Sl  Ikiilt  or  dfficieiicy  in  the  artist.  Wbat  is 
tliat  fault  ?  It  is  lack  of  tnith  and  nobleuess  of  moral 
lemper.  The  greatest  artists  have  not  always  been 
good  or  z-eligious  men,  but  they  have  been  uobie- 
miuded  men.  Their  more  perfect  vision  of  beauty  is 
the  natural  result  of  their  profounder  love  of  truth. 
The  lower  school  of  Dutch  art  is  denouuced  by 
Buskin  on  this  very  ground  ;  it  lacks  beauty  entirely 
because  the  artists  lacked  the  fine  seuse  of  truth. 
They  can  paint  the  coarse  revels  of  the  tavern  with 
a  certain  gross  realism,  but  if  they  had  been  less  of 
tavern  roysterera  themselves,  they  would  have  had 
higher  visions  of  truth,  and  so  would  have  paiuted 
thiugs  that  were  beautiful  instead  of  things  that  are 
repulsive.  It  was  because  they  had  no  thoughts 
that  gave  them  auy  noble  pleasuri',  that  they  relied 
on  sensation  rather  than  imagination  for  the  materials 
of  their  art.  On  the  other  hand,  the  great  Italian 
masters  were  men  of  a  noble,  moral  temper  ;  they 
saw  the  higher  aspects  of  truth,  and  for  that  reason 
they  also  reacned  a  peculiarly  noble  ideal  of  beauty. 
Bad  art  therefore  means  either  a  bad  age  or  an 
ignobly-miuded  artist ;  or  it  may  mean  both— an  agt^ 
that  is  itself  too  gross  to  attain  any  high  vision  of 
truth,  or  to  desire  it,  and  an  artist  who  is  the  product 
of  his  age,  aud  acts  in  conformity  with  it. 

Under  oue  of  Fra  Angelico's  pictures  is  inscril)ed 
the  sentence,  Painted  at  rest,  praying.  Those  who 
look  at  the  picture  are  scarcely  in  need  of  such  an 
explanatiou.  There  is  an  infinite  peace  and  spiritual 
fervour  iu  the  picture  ;  it  seems  to  have  captured  in 
its  rich  colour  a  radiance  that  is  not  of  this  world,  aiid 
it  is  the  «xpressioii  not  merely  of  the  gi-eat  technieal 
qualities  of  the  artist,  but  also  of  the  de\  outnessof  his 


ri' 

'I 

så 


'M'.! 


/,'! 


1)1 


in 


^'f. 


"i  :V: 


ff  I       '  I 


2.H    THE  MAK  KRS  OF  ENGLISII  PKOSE 

mm\,  and  the  virik»  purity  autl  rvach  of  Iuh  imugiua- 
tiou.  And  this  is  uot  an  inapt  illastration  of  the 
tiuth  tbat  Ruskin  «'uforces  contiuually  in  his  art- 
teitchiug.  To  i)rodiice  a  great  picture,  it  is  uecessary 
not  merely  for  the  artist  to  prepare  his  canvas,  but  to 
prepare  himself.  If  a  picture  is  not  great,  it  is  Imv 
causi'  the  artist  Uu'k8  moral  and  spiritual  fibre  ;  and 
no  knowledge  of  techuique,  nor  laborious  dexterity 
of  hand,  eau  cover  this  deficiency.  Beauty  of  a  lue- 
chanical  or  tuuiultuous  kind  there  niay  be,  but  never 
the  highest  form  of  beauty  without  the  uoblest  passion 
for  truth. 

Let  this  priuciple  be  applied  to  the  general  aspects 
of  national  life,  and  it  is  equally  penetrative  and  in- 
fallible.  Let  it  be  assumed  that  Euglish  cities  of  the 
manufacturing  type  are  squalid  aud  repulsive ;  that 
they  have  no  fine  order  or  regnlated  beauty  of  ar- 
rangement ;  that  they  have  no  noble  public  build- 
ings;  or,  if  they  have  them,  they  are  liiddeu  away 
behind  grimy  ranges  of  mean  tenements,  so  that  their 
total  effect  cannot  be  realized  or  discovered  ;  and  it 
will  u^  found  that  this  outward  ugliness  is  the  natural 
witness  to  a  general  contempt  of  truth.  It  is  geuer- 
ally  assumed  that  Ku8kin's  violently  expressed  cen- 
sure  of  the  ignoble  grime  of  manufacturing  towus 
springs  from  a  violent  hatred  of  manufacture.  On 
thecontrary,  he  himself  has  established  manufactures, 
and  praises  with  Carlyle  the  great  "captains  of  in- 
dustry."  But  what  he  sjiys  is,  that  there  is  no  natu- 
ral sussoiuation  betweem  manuf:u'ture  and  ugliness, 
and  there  need  l)e  none.  If  there  lx;  a  notorious  \'\o- 
lat  ion  of  beauty,  it  is  becaus»'  there  has  been  a  notori- 
ous contempt  for  truth.  What  truth?  The  truth 
that  man  lives  not  by  bread  alone  ;  that  the  soul  has 


f*;    i' 


THE  TEAC'IirX(}  OF  IirSKIX         255 


'1 


claims  sw  well  as  the  sloiiiiuh  ;  that  to  make  inoncy 
is  ill  it«»'If  tlie  ignobh'8t  of  pursiiite,  and  that  wheie 
moiiey  in  made  by  the  aa^Tifiee  of  men,  it  is  moro 
wifked  thau  war,   because  more  deliberately  cruel. 
If  there  had   l)een  any  due  and  real  seuse  of  the 
claims  of  the  soul,  as  iutinitely  superior  to  the  claims 
of  the  stomach,  Euglaml  would  not  have  permitted 
her  manufactures  to  thrive  by  the  destruction  of  all 
that  refines  aud  ennobles  those  by  whose  toil  this 
enormous  wealth   is  created.     If  English  cities  are 
ugly,  if  there  is  not  one  of  them,  nor  all  together, 
capable  of  giving  so   much  delight  to  the  eye  as 
the  meanest  mediæval  Ifcilian  town  could  furuish,  it  is 
lH'cause  we  have  Ix-en  too  nmch  absorbed   in  the 
ignoble  haste  to  be  ri(!h  to  care  for  anything  but  the 
con<lition  of  our  bauk-books.     It  is  not  manufactures 
that  are  wrong,  but  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  cou- 
ducte<l.     Those  who  administer  them  have  uotori- 
ously  departed   from  truth   in  the  essential  meth- 
ods  of  their  administratiou.     They  have  not  sought 
to    provide  an   honest   article  foran   honest  wage. 
They  have  had  no  pride  in  their  work,  but  only  a 
biuse  pleasure  in  its  rewards.     They  have  not  suske»!, 
<'  Is  this  thing  that  I  have  made  as  sound  and  effieient 
a  thing  sus  it  is  possible  for  me  to  produce  ?  "  but, 
"Have  I   produeiHl  something  that  will  pay,  and 
something  calculated  cunningly  to  de<«ive  the  eye,  so 
that  I  may  obtain  a  larger  payment  for  it  than  I  have 
justly  earned  or  have  any  right  to  expect!"     No 
wonder  manufiwturing  towns  are  ugly  and  squalid 
wlien  they  are  govenied  and  created  by  men  of  this 
spirit ;  how  could  yoii  reasonably  expect  them  to  be 
beautiful !     There  has  l»een  a  contempt  for  truth,  and 
there  is  a  cormsponding  contempt  for  beauty.     Before 


'Il 


k 


flTi" 


M 


!j'i* 


2;)6    TIIK  MAKERS  OF  ENGLI8H  PROSE 

Knghuid  can  l»e  a  laud  «f  hfautiful  eiticH,  it  must  be 
n-tiewiHi  in  its  ideals,  an«l  must  regaiu  tliat  reverence 
for  trulh  wliieh  it  ha«  lost. 

The  only  final  strength  is  rightuess,  says  Ruskiu  ; 
aud  cxcelhMue,  wliether  of  art  or  of  charaeter,  eau 
ouly  be  achieved  by  au  uuswerving  fidelity  to  right. 
A  coutemi)t  of  beauty  means  more  thau  a  lack  of 
a'8thetic  taste  in  a  man'»  naturt; :  it  meiins  uecessiuily 
a  coutempt  of  right,  sinee  beauty  is  the  coucrete 
tiual  expression  of  rightness.     Veuice  rose  from  the 
sea  in  steru  yet  exquisite  gnindeur  of  form,  because 
the  race  that  hiid  its  stones  deep  iu  the  shallow 
waters  of  the  l.agoons  were  for  ceuturies  a  great  aud 
noble  race,  disciplined  into  strenuous  hardihood  by 
the  nature  of  their  perilous  positiou,  virtuous  by  their 
passion  for  liberty,  great  iu  soul  by  their  revereuce 
for  truth.     The  period  of  their  decline  is  marked  in 
the  corruption  of  their  architecture,  and  the  dream 
of  beauty  lesseus  as  the  people  wax  debased.     It  is 
useless,  says  Ruskiu,  U)  ask  for  meu  like  Tiutoret  or 
churches  like  St.  Mark'8  iu  a  day  when  mauufacture 
prospers    by  jugglery,    aud   tnule  is  au  organ  ized 
deceit;  we  ask  for  the  blossom  on  the  tree,  forgetting 
that  its  stem  is  cut,  and  its  root  withered.     You  will 
get  sound  workmanship   in   no  departmeut  of  li  fe, 
when  honesty  and  truth  have  cejised  to  commaud 
n'spect ;  and  siiice  beauty  is  rightness,  you  will  not 
get  beauty  either.     The  jerry-builder  is  simply  th»' 
uatural  and  inevitjible  protluct  of  an  avaricious  aud 
coiTupt  iige.     He  is  the  panisite  of  a  decayiug  civili- 
/AitUm,  at  ouce  springing  from  the  decay  and  propa- 
gatiug  it.     ILul  Veuice  Imm  built  by  meu  whost'  luie 
IKission  wsus  money,  and  whose  one  evil  gift  Wius  a 
uiinute  and  absolute  uuistery  of  the  art  of  cheating, 


THE  TEACHING  OF  KUSKIN         257 

we  should  have  hsul  a  stucco  St.  Mark'8,  which  long 
Jigo  bad  sunk  unregretted  in  the  tides  from  which  it 
rose.     An  unstable  people  does  not  build  stable  and 
enduriug  works,  but  after  its  kind  unstable  erectious, 
only  meant  to  last  m  long  aa  nioney  can  be  made  by 
thein.    The  age  of  cathedral  building  was  naturally 
the  age  wheu  belief  in  God  was  au  intelligible  faetor 
in  human  couduet,   and  when  the  imaginations  of 
men  were  fed    by  solemn    and    eterual   visions  of 
tnith.     But    when    we   build    churches    we    build 
them  by  contra<;t,  accepting  the  Iowest  tender,  aud 
we   are   utterly  indifferent    to    the  quality  of  the 
work,  so  long  jw  we  get  something  showy  for  our 
money.    All  the  bad  building  tliat  goes  on  iu  our 
civic  centres  is  therefore,  like  the  bad  art  of  our  time 
simply  the  outward  witness  to  an  inward  corruption 
ot  the  conscience.     The.(,  is  only  one  remedy,  says 
Ruskin  :  "  No  religion  that  ever  was  prea«hed  on  this 
earth  of  God'8  rounding,  will  proelaim  any  salvation 
to  sellers  of  bad  goods.     If  the  Ghost  that  is  in  vou 
whatever  the  essence  of  it,  leaves  your  hand  a  juggler'8 
and  your  heart  a  cheafs,  it  is  not  a  Holy  Ghost,  be 
assured    of   that.     And    for    the  rest,   all  political 
m)nomy,  aa  well  aa  all  higher  virtue,  depends  first 
on  sound  work." 

To  obtain,  therefore,  fine  art  or  noble  arehitecture, 
according  to  the  gospel  of  Ruskin,  means  an  entiré 
reorganization  of  commerce,  and  a  renewal  of  the 
whole  nation  in  righteousness.  And  this  means  a 
renewal  m  honesty,  a  word  whose  meaning  is  almost 
iost  m  the  dim-sightedne&s  bred  of  universal  ohicanerv 
and  fraud.  Thus,  by  what  is  after  all  no  feat  of  intel 
lectual  swrobatics,  but  a  calmly  reasoned  and  intelli- 
gent process,  Ruskin  passes  from  the  consideration 


"^rr 


ié 


258    THE  MAKKRS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

of  the  ethicH  of  art  and  arehitecture  to  the  creation 
of  a  new  aud  radical  political  economy. 

What,  then,  is  the  chief  burdea  of  K«8km'8  ethirøl 
and  social  teaohingt    H.  lays  down,  ti^t  «f  al  ,  the 
absolute  duty  of  work,  and  of  work  which  as  far  aa 
possible,  absorbs  the  full  interest,  aud  excitea  the  in- 
Ztive  faculty  of  the  worker.    The  g«;f  ^^U  «^  7^^. 
ern  civilization  is  "not  that  meu  are  Ul  fed,  but  that 
thev  have  no  plea^ure  in  the  work  by  which  they 
make  their  bread,  and  therefore  look  to  wealth  astho 
only  means  of  pleasure."     Now  the  workmen  who 
built  St.   Mark'8,   or  any  great  EngUsh  cathedral, 
were,  beyond  doubt,  far  worse  ft^d  than  our  modem 
workmen ;  but  their  work  was  a  pleasure  to  them, 
because  they  put  into  it  such  intelligence  of  soul  as 
they  possessed,  and  therefore  it  is  good  and  stable 
work      The  general  thirst  for  wealth  really  means, 
therefore,  a  distaste  for  honest  labour,  and  the  re- 
solve  to  escape  labour  by  the  readiest  means  in  our 
tMjwer     But  why  has  the  workman  no  pleasure  m  his 
work !    Partly  because  we  have  destroyed  the  possi- 
bility  of  pleasure  by  what  we  call  division  oflabour, 
and  so  renden-d  the  exercise  of  thought  and  intelh- 
gence  unne<.ess.«y.     "It  is  "ot,  truly  «P*:^^;"^'   ^^ 
fabour  which  is  divided,  but  the  men  :  di^ded  ^nto 
mere  segments  of  men-broken  into  small  fragments 
and  crumbs  of  life  ;  so  that  all  the  lUtle  piece  of  m^ 
telligence  that  is  left  in  a  man  is  not  cnough  to  make 
a  pin  or  a  nail,  but  exhausts  its^^lf  In  making  the  poi  t 
of  a  pin  or  the  head  of  a  nail."     Tlns  is  really  the 
ground    of   Ru8kin's  antagonism   to  machiue-made 
goods,  and  his  strong  preference  for  goods  made  by 
hand  :  the  latter  are  the  pmduct  of  intelligence,  and 
work  that  has  ple;isure  in  its  act,  and  the  former  are 


■\^i 


.n 


^lUmm^a^m^imåitåaataåtmitti 


THE  TEACHIXCf  OF  HUSK  I X 


)i:>9 


not ;  the  oiie  work  develops  men,  the  other  divideM 
and  cnslaves  them. 

He  then  gives  his  standard  of  wages  in  thre«'  prin- 
ciples,  which  to  all  meu  of  jnst  and  honourablemiiids 
will  appear  selfevident  and  imperative.  First,  meu 
shonld  be  paid  for  the  actiial  work  done ;  secondly, 
'^  a  man  should  in  justico  be  paid  for  difflcult  or  dan- 
gerous  work  proportionately  more  than  for  easy  and 
sjifi^  work,  supposing  the  other  conditions  of  the  work 
similar"  :  thirdly,  "if  a  man  doesagiven  quantity 
of  work  for  me,  I  am  bonud  in  justice  to  do,  or  pro- 
cnre  to  be  done,  a  precisely  equal  quantity  of  work 
for  him  ;  and  just  trade  in  labour  is  the  exchange  of 
etpiivaUnit  quantities  of  hibour  of  different  kinds." 
Thus  the  employer  of  labour  is  himself  a  la- 
bourer,  giving,  in  exchange  for  work  done  for  him, 
another  kind  of  work  done  for  those  who  serve 
under  him.  The  factory  workcr  is  not  "a  hand," 
but  a  man,  and  it  is  the  bounden  duty  of  his 
employer  to  see  that  he  has  a  fair  share  of  food,  and 
warmth  and  comfort,  and  a  reasonable  opportun ity 
of  attending  to  the  wauts  of  his  miud,  and  the  culture 
of  his  soul.  His  claim  is  not,  and  never  can  be,  net- 
tled adequately  by  any  award  of  money  ;  his  employer 
is  also  responsible  for  the  nature  of  his  life.  If  the 
individual  employer  is  too  callous  or  indiiferent  to 
attend  to  these  resjrønsibilities,  thon  it  is  the  business 
of  the  State  to  step  in,  and  force  upon  the  avaricious 
and  foolish  miwter  the  instant  attendance  to  his  dnties. 
Indeed,  in  aliuost  all  that  concerns  trade,  Ruskin 
advocat^^  what  we  understand  as  State-Socialism. 
He  would  have  either  the  trade-guild  or  the  State  fix 
a  standard  of  excellence  for  all  manufsu-turtHl  articles. 
The  public  would  soon  discover  that  it  was  all  the 


M 


isi 


20<»    TIIK  MAKKltS  OF  KNOLISH  PIUXSE 

better  off  by  buying  u  sound  article,  and  the  cnize  for 
nifre  eheapmtwwould  die  witli  the  di»covt'ry  that  the 
chfttp  thiug  is,  in  the  loug-ruu,  the  dearest,  being 
worthlcMS  at  auy  price.     Moreover,  sueh  a  wise  inter- 
feivnee  by  the  State,  if  all  states  would  unite  in  ita 
eufoivemeut,  would,  in  the  end,  kill  the  demon  of 
coniiH'tition,  which  is  the  curec'  of  eommerce.     "  The 
primal  and  eternal  hiw  of  vital  eommerce  shall  be  of 
all  men  underetood;  uamely,  that  everj'  nation  is 
fitted  by  its  character,  aud  the  nature  of  its  terri- 
tories,  for  some  particular  employments  or  mauufac- 
tures  ;  and  that  it  is  the  true  interest  of  every  other 
nation  to  eneourage  it  in  such  specialty,  and  by  no 
means  to  interfere  with,  but  in  all  ways  forward  and 
proteet  its  efforts,  cesisiug  all  rivalship  with  it,  so 
Boon  a»  it  isstrong  enough  to  occupy  its  proper  place." 
The  one  necessjiry  principle  for  all  honourable  and 
efficient  tnide  is  thus  seen  to  be  cooperation.     First 
of  all,  betweeu  the  employers  and  the  employetl,  each 
honestly  working  to  serve  the  publie  by  the  produc- 
tion  of  the  best  possible  article ;  and  then  betwoen  na- 
tions, each  separate  pcople  produciug  what  it  can 
produce  best,  for  the  general  international  good. 

It  will,  of  course,  be  ssud,  that  under  such  a  system 
as  this  no  large  fortunes  could  be  made  ;  but  e<iually 
it  is  true  that  nine-tenths  of  our  waut  and  misery 
would  disappear,  the  other  tenth  being  that  caused 
by  vice  and  improvidence,  which  no  State  can  re- 
move,  so  long  lUS  mau  hrø  the  right  to  ruin  himself. 
The  question  is,  how  are  large  fortunes  made,  and 
by  what  metho<ls,  under  the  existing  system  1  Ruskin 
replies  that  such  fortunes  as  are  the  prizes  of  com 
merce  can  only  Im»  made  in  one  of  three  ways  :  (1)  By 
obtaluing  command  over  the  labour  of  multitudes  of 


m 


MMfliMI 


THE  TKACIIING  OF  lUSKLV 


2ni 


other  nuMi,  uiid  bixin^  it  forourown  prolit.  (2)  By 
tietwuie-trov»',  uh  ol"  uuuvh,  iin»'1u1  Vfgflabk'  prcHliictN, 
and  the  Uke — in  circumHtauc'<>H  puttiug  thfni  muler 
our  own  exclusive  coutrol.  (.{)  Hy  «iieculation  («>in- 
mercial  tjaiiibiinK).  liuskiu  catfgorit*  tlu-m  tliree 
metluMls  iiiultT  the  H»!athiug  title  of  "The  nature  of 
theft  by  unjiwt  proflts,"  aud.  after  explaiuiug  by 
what  means  8uc*h  dishouest  aequisition  is  accom- 
plished,  aaks  us  to  "cousider  further,  how  muuy  of 
the  carriages  that  glitter  in  our  stn^^b*  are  driven,  and 
how  niany  of  the  stately  houseH  that  gU'am  auioug  our 
English  fieldsare  inhabited,  by  this  kind  of  thief!" 
His  remedy  for  the  first  kind  of  theft  is,  as  we  have 
seeu,  a  just  system  of  cooi)eration  ;  and  while  no 
remedy  is  stated  for  the  second,  yet  the  plaiu  sug- 
gestion is  the  nationalization  of  mines  and  mineral 
trejwure  generally,  as  the  property  of  the  State,  to  be 
administered  for  the  good  of  all.  Of  the  third  form 
of  theft  his  woitls  are  unmistiikubly  stern  and  incisive  ; 
"  for  in  all  cases  of  proflt  derive<l  from  speculation,  at 
best,  what  one  man  g-.iins  anolher  loses  ;  and  the  net 
result  to  the  State  is  zero  (pe<'uniarily"),  with  the  loss 
of  time  and  ingenuity  spent  in  the  transsiction  ;  be- 
side  the  disadvantage  involved  in  the  discouragement 
of  the  losing  party,  and  the  corrupted  moml  natures 
ofboth." 

But,  beyond  all  this,  Ruskin  teaches  that  great  foi-- 
tunes  ai-e  rarely  a  bleasiug  to  their  posscsHoi-s,  and  the 
truly  fortuuate  man  is  he  whose  wealth  is  in  the  limi- 
tatiou  of  his  lower  desires,  and  the  extension  of  his 
higher  aspinitions.  The  gaspel  of  plain  living  and 
high  thinking  is  after  all  a  possi ble  gospel,  within  the 
ri'{U'h  of  all.  The  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all  the 
evil  in  our  modern  life.     It  is  right  that  work  should 


I 


■I  "*» 


202    TIIK  MAKEKS  OF  EX(JLISH  PKOSK 

l)e  hoiiwtly  rtMimnemttHl ;  hut  if  w»^  \o\'v  tlw  Ut  iiion^ 
tiuiti  thf  work,  tbeu  fee  Is  our  uuwter,  "  ainl  tiu'  l«rd 
..f  ftH',  who  iKthe  dt-vil."     TUe  tiuo  sulvaiMfimnt  of 
iiien  uuiHt  begiii  in  the  htnirt  und  foiimifiirc,  aud  it  im 
JMHrauHt'  EuKhiud  hjw  k»«'»"  *"  *f>^lth,  but  not  it. 
chunu>ter,  tlmt  we  have  nide  by  Hide  thf  prodigallty 
of  the  rich  and  the  waut  of  the  poor ;  and,  having  re- 
gard  to  the  ttrat  alone,  pereuade  ouiHelves  that  we  live 
in  an  era  of  uuexaniplwl  prosperity,  and  are  blinii  to 
the  realitics  of  uuexanipled  corrui)tion  and  material - 
i8ui.     We  have  yet  to  learn  the  art  of  wise  aud  noble 
living;  aud  "what  is  chiefly  net-ded       England  at 
the  preHent  day  is  to  show  the  quant.      of  pleasure 
that  may  be  obtained  by  a  consistent,  welladminis- 
tered  comi)eteuce,  modest,  eonfesseil,  and  laborious. 
We  need  examples  of  people  who,  leaving  Heaveu  to 
detdde  whether  they  are  to  rist'!  in  the  world,  decide 
for  themselves  whether  they  will  be  happy  in  it,  aud 
have  resolved  to  seek,  not  great«>r  wealth,  but  simpler 
pleasure ;  not  higher  fortune,   but  d<^per   felicity  ; 
uuiking  the  first  of  possessions  self-possession  ;  and 
honouring  themselves  in  the  harmless  pride  and  calm 
pursuits  of  peace. ' '     These  are  truly  prophetic  words, 
and  coutain,  not  ouly  the  couuael  of  a  great  thiuker, 
but  of  a  true  patriot. 


if 


XIX 

RU8KIN'S  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN 

NO  summury  of  KuHkiu'H  teaehiug  wouIU  l»p 
cuiiipleU;  wittiuut  iffureuee  to  thf  mor»* 
IHietinil  HiUe  uf  hin  gt>iiiiu ;  Mid  siiice  it  is 
nwxiBsary  to  (iuote  some  coucrfti'  i'xain|«l«>,  we  run 
m-an-ely  tiiul  a,  ljett»T  thau  tha^  Hectiou  of  hiH  writingH 
whicb  tIt»alH  s|HH'iti<-ally  with  the  place  iisHifjued  to 
woiiiau  in  bis  ucw  Ttiipia.  For  Lim,  iM  fut-  all  loully 
gfcat  writt>rH  tind  thinkers,  wouuiu  occupMs  a  high 
placr,  and  Hhoiikl  ««xtMt  a  rommaudiug  mdiume. 
But  on»'  can  no  nioi-e  d«M\ribe  iu  a  H*'nteut»«  whiil  i.-» 
I{u8kiu'8i<leul  wonian,  tlian  what  is  hi»  ideal  of  ad,  lor 
in  all  his  writiuj;  h«  is  as  \ve  havo  stfu,  alternately  r» 
actionaiy  and  |>l•^^^lv^ssiv«•,  aud  at  ali  timos  a  niystif, 
whost*  peræptioiiH  iv  coIourhI  by  a  singularly  grave 
and  noble  iniaginatiou.  That  he  wonld  not  a('«e|)t  all 
the  tlu*oi'ies  of  feni;ile  fmaneipation  wliich  are  t  iurent 
today  is  cle-ar  fron  the  most  cannal  aiquaintanee 
with  his  drift  of  tlumght,  and  in  this  he  mav  be 
deemed  reaetionary.  Hut  the  rea<'tioii  on  its  rel>ound 
really  liecomes  a  very  large  measure  of  progivssion. 
He  g»)iH  baek  to  the  more  aneient  ideals  of  womanly 
nuMlesty,  hnmility,  and  serviee,  only  to  link  thtin 
afresh  t«  all  that  is  highest  in  the  aims  of  modem  I  i  fe. 
And  nowhere  ia  his  mysticism — the  mystieism  of  the 
lover  aud  the  thinker,  rvverent  an<l  swe«'t  and  beanti- 
fnl — mon'  pronounced  1  --aii  in  his  treatment  of  woman. 
Iu  Unskin  hima<'lf  the!  is  a  certain  feminine  ««lenient 
that  perhaps  enables    u:u  to  judge  wounin  with   a 

2G3 


' 


I    I 


204    THE  MAKERS  OF  EXGLISH  PROSE 

finer  delicacy  aud  more  aecurate  eye  thau  beloug  to 
most  men ;  eertaiuly  with  a  graver  sympathy  and 
more  ehivalrous  regard. 

Every  one  who  lurø  read  the  leeture  on  "Qneen'8 
Gardens"  in  Seaamc  and  the  Lilies  will  remember  the 
series  of  tine  passages  in  whieh  Kuskin  points  out 
how  reverence  for  womanhood  has  beeu  the  master- 
note  in  the  rich  music  of  the  greatest  poets.  We  can- 
not do  better  than  recall  these  psuissiges  if  we  would 
understand  his  owu  ideal  of  womanhood.  Broadly 
speaking,  he  says,  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes — he  has 
only  heroiues.  The  one  entirely  heroie  iigure  in  the 
plays— and  this  is  after  ali  but  a  slight  sketch — is 
Henry  the  Fifth.  And  then  hecontinues:  "Cor- 
olanus,  Cæsar,  Antony,  stand  in  fluMed  strength, 
and  fall  by  their  vanities;  Hamlet  is  indolent  and 
di-owsily  speculative  ;  Pomeo  an  impatient  boy  ;  the 
Merchant  of  Venice  languidly  submissive  to  adverse 
foitune ;  Kent,  in  Kinff  Lear,  is  entirely  noble  at 
heart,  but  too  rough  and  unpolished  to  he  of  tiue  use 
at  the  critical  time,  and  he  sinks  into  the  oftice  of  a 
servant  only.  .  .  .  "NVherejis  there  is  hai-dly  a 
play  that  Ims  not  a  perfect  woman  in  it,  steadfast  in 
grave  hope  and  errorless  purpose ;  Cordelia,  Des- 
demona,  Issibella,  Hermione,  Inn)gen,  Queen  ('ath- 
enne,  Perdita,  Sylvin,  Viola,  Rosiilind,  Helena,  and 
Isist,  and  perhaps  loveliest,  Virgilia,  are  all  faulth'ss, 
conceive»!  in  the  highest  lieioi»^  type  of  humaniiy." 
Of  course,  the  mind  will  alst)  ivcall  the  d read  iigure 
of  I^ady  Macbeth,  and  the  revolting  hnrd-lieartedness 
of  Kegan  and  Gon«'ril  ;  but  thes»',  sjiys  I\Ir.  Rnskiu, 
were  clearly  meant  by  Sli!ikesi)('are  lo  Iw  frightful  ex- 
eeptions  to  the  ordinary  aspects  of  li  fe.  And  as  it 
was  with  Shakespeaiv,  so  it  was  with  Walter  Scott, 


RUSKL\'S  IDKAL  OF  WOMEX       205 

With  DaiiU",  With  thegivat  Giwksi,  aud  wilh  ouiown 
Chamer  aiitl  Sjjeuser.  \Vher»'ver  womau  is piclujvd, 
it  is  in  the  bright  streugth  of  hir  truth  aud  purity, 
her  constancy  and  virtue.  Chaucer  writ«'s  his  Lcffnid 
of  Good  Women,  and  Speuscr  makos  it  clear  to  us  how 
easily  the  best  of  his  faery  knighta  uiay  be  deceived 
and  vanquished  ;  "  but  the  soul  of  Uua  is  never  dark- 
ened,  aud  the  spear  of  Britomait  is  never  broken." 
This  view  of  woman  is  oue  whieh  Mr.  Ruskin  iu- 
dorses  aud  amplifies.  He  believes  iu  the  old  Teu- 
f onic  reverence  for  womeu  aa  the  prophets  of  society, 
"as  infallibly  faithful  aud  wise  couuselloi-s,  iueor- 
ruptibly  just  and  pure  examplrø— strong  always  to 
sanctify  even  where  they  cannot  save";  aud  he 
shows  With  completeuess  of  illustratiou  that  thegreat- 
est  men  have  believed  iu  this  ideal  of  womanhood, 
aud  that  this  belief  has  shaped  aud  coloured  all  that 
is  noblest  iu  the  poetic  litei-ature  of  the  world. 

Staitiug  from  this  noble  ideal  of  what  womau  may 
be,  Ruskin  works  out  the  details  of  his  pictui-e  with 
great  art  aud  fidelity.  He  will  hear  of  no  "supe- 
riority  "  between  the  sexes,  of  no  obedienoe  demauded 
by  the  one  as  the  prerogative  of  sex,  or  n^udered  by 
the  other  as  its  condition.  Womau  was  certiu  uly  not 
uieaut  to  be  the  atteudaut  shsidow  of  her  lo  J,  serv- 
ing him  with  a  thonghtless  aud  servile  ol>edieuce ; 
for  how  could  he  be  ''  helpetl  eflFectually  by  ashadow,' 
or  worthily  by  a  slave  "  !  And  .us  for  " superiority," 
in  what  does  superic  rity  lie  ?  For  auy  true  compari- 
soii  fluM-o  must  be  similarity,  wliemw  betwwni  man 
and  woman  there  is  eternal  dissimilarity.  They  can 
Im'  ucither  ecjual  nor  uiiequal  who  have  wholly  differ- 
ent gifts,  and  are  intrusttHl  with  widely  various  func- 
tions.     "  Each  hjus  what  the  other  has  iiot ;  each  com- 


^ 


1 


'  ""-^ 


I       I 


I 


C 


=  |t    . 


20G    THE  MAKEliS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

pletes  the  oUier,  aud  is  completed  by  the  othor  ;  the> 
are  iu  uothing  alike,  aud  the  happiuesss  aud  perfci- 
tiou  of  both  depeuds  ou  eiwJi  juskiug  aud  leceiviug 
from  the  other  what  the  other  ouly  can  give."  Yet 
however  radical  are  the  differeuces,  siniply  becsause 
eaeh  is  the  complenieut  of  the  other,  their  cause  is 
oue,  aud  the  missiou  aud  rights  of  womeu  canuot  be 
separated  from  the  missiou  aud  rights  of  men.  Th  is 
is  simply  a  prose  statement  of  the  philosophy  which 
Teuuysou  has  interpreted  in  memorable  vei-se  wheu 
he  says : 

For  womau  is  not  nndevelopt  man, 
Bat  diverse  :  coold  we  make  her  as  the  man, 
Sweet  love  were  slain  ;  his  boud  la  this, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  diflerenoe. 
♦  ♦*»»* 

The  womau's  cause  ia  man'8  ;  tbey  rise  or  sink 
Togetber,  dwarfed  or  godlike,  boud  or  free. 

To  the  more  ardeut  and  inconsiderate  spirits  iu  the 
modem  revolt  of  womau,  all  this  may  seem  some- 
what  antiquated  philosophy  nowadays.  Those  who 
are  loudest  iu  proclaimiug  the  advauce  of  womeu 
sometimes  talk  as  if  they  would  be  couteut  witli  no 
advauce  that  did  uot  submerge  man,  or  which  at 
least  surreudered  the  claim  of  absolute  eqaality  to 
womau.  Aud  such  womeu  will  probably  reseut  the 
stress  which  Ruskiu  lays  upon  mau's  fituess  for  the 
world,  aud  womau's  fituess  for  the  household.  They 
will  not  care  to  admit  that  "mau's  poMer  is  active, 
progressive,  defensive.  He  is  emiueutly  the  doer,  the 
cresitor,  the  discoverer,  the  delender.  His  iutellect 
is  for  speculation  and  iuvention ;  his  energy  for 
adventure,   for  war,  for  cou<iuest,  wherever  wai-  is 


l*H 


l:r-{^ 


KLISKINS  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN        207 


just,  wherever  conquest  neceasary.  But  the  woman'8 
power  is  lor  rule,  not  tor  battli' ;  aud  her  intellect  is 
not  lor  iiiveution  or  ereatioo,  but  lor  sweet  ordering, 
iirrangemeur,  decisiou  "  Yet  it  may  be  well  evfu 
lor  the  most  advauced  woiuau  to  mk  whether  Teuuy- 
son  aud  Riiskiu  have  not  the  trrth  with  them,  aud 
whethor  she  would  not  lose  far  more  than  she  could 
gaiu  by  scornfuUy  rejectiug  the  programnie  each 
jissigus  her.  For  it  is  in  the  domaiu  of  the  euiotious 
that  Ruskiu  makes  womau  supreme.  The  man,  iu 
his  couflict  with  the  world,  is  sure  to  be  hardened ; 
but  it  is  his  business  to  guard  the  woman  against  this 
hardeniug  of  the  heart,  and  her  work  is  to  soften  and 
purify  the  man  by  the  strength  of  her  emotious  aud 
the  joy  of  her  alfeetion.  The  hardening  of  the  heart 
is  a  doleful  aud  disastrous  process,  which  we  see 
going  on  arouud  us  every  day,  and  perhaps  also  per- 
ceive  within  m.  We  jiccept  the  respousibility  for 
traiuing  the  mind,  but  we  do  not  think  it  necessary 
to  train  and  educate  the  emotious.  More  than  this, 
we  English  people  ai-e  for  the  most  part  ashamed  of 
our  emotious,  and  take  a  pride  iu  repressing  them,  so 
that  equally  in  Europe  aud  America  we  are  regarded 
lus  the  coldest  and  most  phlegmatic  of  races.  It  is, 
no  doubt,  not  well  to  wear  the  heart  upou  the  sleeve, 
but  it  is  still  worse  to  repress  the  emotious  uutil  they 
become  sterile,  and  the  very  power  of  feeling  dies  in 
us.  For  the  Englishman,  the  home  is  the  oue  secure 
asylum  where  he  permits  his  heart  to  beat  fre«'ly, 
aud  for  that  reason  we,  more  than  most  peoples, 
should  revereuce  women  as  the  que«nis  of  the  heart, 
whose  work  it  is  to  liberate  iu  the  home  the  emotious 
that  have  beeu  repressetl  iu  the  world.  Home  is  the 
pliu-e  of  peace,  the  sjinctuary  of  the  heart,  the  realm 


>; 


i 


1^' 


IK?) 


If! 


-^1 

I  .il 


it 


2(58    THE  MAKERS  OF  EXGLISH  PROSE 

Miierein  the  emotiuns  niay  fiud  froe  air  aud  unim- 
peded  action ;  it  is,  Ji»  Kusk  i  u  uobly  «lys,  roof  and 
fire,  «helter  and  wariuth,  »ihade  and  light — ''Shade 
•dH  of  the  rock  in  a  weary  land,  aud  light  as  of  the 
Pharos  in  the  stormy  sea."  Aud  in  such  a  home  it 
is  the  part  of  wonian  to  be  "euduriugly,  incorrupt- 
ibly  good ;  iustinctively,  infallibly  wise — wise,  uot 
for  self-developmeut,  but  for  self-renunciation  ;  wise, 
nut  that  she  may  set  herself  above  her  husband,  but 
that  she  may  never  fail  from  his  side  ;  wise,  not  with 
tlie  narrowness  of  iusolent  and  loveleas  pr  ide,  but 
Mith  the  passiouate  gentleness  of  au  infiuitely  variable, 
because  infiuitely  applicable,  modesty  of  service — the 
true  chaugefuluess  of  woman." 

"Wise,  uot  for  self-developmeut,  %Ht  for  self- 
reuuuciiitiou,*'  this  agaiu  will  sound  like  a  note  of 
reaction,  aud  will  be  distasteful  to  mauy  nøble  souls 
who  toil  heroically  for  the  s^dvauce  of  wosau.  Yet 
the  whole  evil  is  in  the  sound — there  is  no  error  iu 
the  seutimeut.  If  morality  is  more  thau  cultare,  if 
to  be  is  better  thau  to  know,  i  f  character  is  a  more 
pi-eeious  gaiu  than  even  kuowledge,  then  it  is  clear 
that  self-nMuinciatiou,  by  which  the  flower  of  the 
soul  is  brought  to  fullness,  is  a  uobler  gaiu  than  seif 
<ieveloi>meut,  by  which  the  miud  is  traiued  ta  alert 
swtivity  an<l  the  Irødy  to  athletie  vigour.  For  what 
Kuskiu  meaus  by  self-developmeut  is  the  develop- 
ment of  selflshness,  just  jus  by  self-reuunciation  he 
UHniiiH  the  sulwiual  t)f  seif,  and  its  snppressiou.  Cer- 
taiiily  he  does  not  mean  that  th«'  weapous  of  intel- 
lectual  growth  ««■  physical  culture  are  to  be  deuied 
to  wouien.  On  the  oontrary,  he  declares  that  the 
fir-st  duty  of  society  to  women  is  "to  secure  for  her 
such  physic-al  tmiuing  and  exercise  nu  may  confirm 


hy: 


RUSKIN'S  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN 


269 


her  lualtli  aud  perfect  her  beauty,"  aud  again,  tliat 
"all  such  kuowledge  should  be  given  her  as  may 
enable  her  to  uuderstaud,  aud  even  to  aid,  the  work 
of  luau."  In  this  latter  respect  Buskin  may  be 
claimed  as  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  higher  educa- 
tion  of  womeu.  In  1864,  when  theæ  words  were 
uttered,  there  were  not  mauy  men  who  ventured  to 
claim  a  perfect  equality  of  education  for  men  and 
women ;  but  this  Buskin  does  with  passionate  plead- 
ing,  nor  is  there  any  passage  of  satire  in  his  writings 
more  telling  than  that  in  which  he  contrasts  the  edu- 
cation iifforded  to  a  boy  with  that  thought  sufficient 
for  a  girl.  He  says  that  at  least  you  show  some 
respect  for  the  tutor  of  your  son,  and  you  teach  your 
son  to  respect  him.  You  do  not  treat  the  Dean  of 
Christ  Church  or  the  Master  of  Trinity  as  youi-  in- 
leriors.  But  you  intrust  the  entire  formation  of  a 
girrs  "character,  moral  and  intellectual,  to  a  person 
whom  you  let  your  servants  treat  with  less  respect 
than  they  do  your  housekeeper  (as  if  the  soul  of  your 
child  were  a  less  charge  than  jam  and  groceries),  and 
whom  you  yourself  think  you  confer  an  honour  upon 
by  lettii^  her  sometimes  sit  in  the  drawing  room  in 
the  eveaing/'  Mr.  Eu8kin's  ideal  woman  is  clearly 
no  creature  of  unfiirnished  mini,  m«ek  with  the 
meekness  of  iguorance,  subservient  with  the  humility 
of  self-distrust ;  she  is  the  highest  product  of  both 
physical  and  mental  culture,  and  is  fitted  to  sit  with 
man  in  equal  comradeship  — 

Full-snmmed  in  all  their  powera, 
DLspensing  barvest,  soving  the  To-Be. 

8nHkiii's  ideal  of  woman  includes,  therefore,  a  very 
full  tru^t  in  those  moral  iustincts  which  he  regardsas 


i     11 


i 


i'i  i 


( 


ir 


L>7t)    THK  MAKKliS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

Iht  highi-st  gift,  aud  in  thf  uiiiinpedtHl  t'Xt'ivim^  of 
which  he  UiseeriiH  her  uobU'st  power.     He  ehiims  for 
her  the  largest  liberty,  because  she  i»  far  less  likely 
tiian  man  to  abuse  her  liberty.     ile  goes  so  far  sis  to 
(leeiare  that  nature  in  her  is  to  be  tiustt^  far  moro 
thau  in  men  to  do  its  own  work,  and  to  do  it  beauti- 
fnlly  and  beueficently.     The  boy  may  be  chiselled 
into  shape,  but  the  girl  must  take  her  own  way,  and 
wiil  grøw  as  a  flower  grows.     The  boy  neetls  dis- 
iipline  before  he  will  learn  what  is  goo<l  for  him  ;  but 
the  girl,  if  she  trust  her  instinetM,  wiil  be  infallibly 
gui<h'd  to  what  is  g(M)d  around  her  without  any,  sjive 
the   ^slightest,    pressure   fn>m  extr,intH)us  authority. 
Thus  Mr.  Kuskin  sulvocates  in  a  well-known  passiige 
the  wisdom  of  letting  a  girl  pretty  much  alone  in  the 
choice  of  her  reading,  so  long  sis  the  mere  ephemcral 
•'  packiigt;  of  the  circulating  library,  wet  with  the  last 
and  lightest  spray  of  the  fountain  of  folly,"  is  kept 
out    of   her  May.     "Turn    her  loose  into  the  old 
library,"  he  says,  "and  let  her  alone.    She  will  tind 
what  is  goo<l  for  her,  and  yon  cannot.    .    .    .     Let  her 
loose  in  the  library,  I  sjiy,  sus  you  do  a  fawn  in  a  field. 
It  knows  the  bsul  weeds  twenty  times  lK'tt*'r  thsm  you, 
sind  the  good  ones  too,  and  will  eat  some  bitter  smd 
l)ri(kly  ones,  goml   for   it,  which   yon  had  not  the 
slight««t   thought  wei-e  good."     This  is  an   heroic 
form  of  edncation,  indtHnl,  but  in  Rnskin's  view  it  is 
the  hest  form,  simply  lM'canse  he  has  unbonnihd  faith 
in  the  wis«'  iutnition  and  invincible  jMuity  of  true 
womanho«)d.     He  lH'li«'ves  with  (Jeorg»'  Jleredith  that 
wonian  lies  nearer  to  the  heail  of  Nature  than  man, 
smd  is  a  «'reature  of  altogethcr  snrer  smd  wis«'r  in- 
stinct.     TIhtc   is  a  swe<*t,  ol<l-fashione«l  chivaliy  in 
this  doctrine,  of  which  we  hear  little  to-dsiy.     It  is 


-n 


^ 


HLSKINVS  IDKAL  OF  WOMKX        271 


characteristie  «>f  tho  man.  Simple  hiniwir iis a chilcl, 
pnre  aiul  sweet  uatured  as  a  cliilil,  he  hte\H  ssomelhing 
of  that  n;verent  woi-ship  for  woraan  which  was  the 
HOiil  of  ancieut  chivairy  ;  and  no  woman  eau  rejul  his 
writings  without  a  fresh  aud  happy  sense  of  her  own 
eudowments,  aud  a  new  and  high  ideul  of  how  thene 
can  be  best  applied  for  the  service  of  the  world. 

\V\i  are  all  hot  for  oniaucipation  to-day.     Ki»kiu 
bid.s  us  inquire  what  such  emaucipation  reaJly  mejins. 
He  reiuinds  us  that  womauhood  may  be  emaucipateil 
iu  so  rougli  aud  wrong  a  Ijushion  that  the  bloon»  of 
Virgin  grace  niay  be  wjisted  in  the  procetss,  aud  the 
true  charm  of  wonuuihood  niay  perish.     An  emauci- 
pation which  corrupts  the  deliciicy  of  the  soul,  or 
dulls  the  sensitiveness  of  the  emotious,  is  a  fatal  error, 
for  which  no  gaiu  of  worldly  shrewduess  or  mentjil 
acumen  can  be  any  just  or  appreciahle  n-coni pense. 
It  is  in  her  power  of  sympathy,  of  kinduess,  of  all 
fine  aud  teuder  feeling,  that  woman's  true  strength 
lies,  and  auy  diniinutiou  lure  is  not  ouly  to  her  a 
fatal  detrinieut,  but  it  is  n  houndless  loss  intiicted  on 
society.     To   learn   to   feel,  or  to   keep   in  unspent 
freshuess  the  power  to   feel,   is  for  woman  of  far 
gi-eater  moment  tliau  to  learn  to  know,  or  to  learu  to 
achieve  some  poor  battle  in  the  clamorous  sTrifes  of  a 
«•alhms  world.     There  is  a  liigher  tliin};  tlian  to  speak 
With  tougues,  or  to  know  all  mysteries,  and  that  is  to 
love  With  the  love  that  thinketh  iioevil.  that  rejojeeth 
in   the  truth,  that   iH-areth  all   thiuirs,   believetli  all 
Ulings,  hopeth  all  fiiiiigs.  eiidureth  all  tliings.     This 
is  the  ess«Mice  of  Ruskiii's  ideul  wouiiinlHMMl.     Xotliing 
that  ought   to  be  share<l  with  man  will  he  deuy  her, 
bilt  lie  iiisists  that  there  are  many  thiiijrs  slie  nt^l  not 
wish  lo  slia»',  l)e<'ause  sh<'  is  tlu-  luistress  of  a  larger 


{' 


L>72     TUK  MAKKK^S  OF  EN(JL1SH  PROSE 

Wfulth  wliiih  is  hiihlun  in  her  owu  h<»uI.  T<»  know 
how  to  love  truly,  to  feed  the  Siu-ivd  Hiinie  ol"  love 
which  is  the  glory  of  the  world,  to  8olt«'n  the  siKperiti^-s 
of  life  with  her  charity,  and  to  brijjhten  its  joys  by 
her  di  viner  foree  of  fd^linj?,  this  is  the  true  prograuime 
of  tnie  womanhood,  and  there  ia  no  noble-natnred 
wonian  who  will  not  graut  that  it  is  a  high  and  uoble 
ideal. 


XX 

JOHN  RU8KIN :  CHARACTERISTIC8 

SO  far  I  have  endeavoured  to  furnish  rather  an 
indication  to  Euskin'8  system  of  thonght  tban 
an  analysis  of  it,  because  no  analysis  is  worth 
much  that  is  not  complete,  and  a  complete  analysis 
needs  not  a  chapter  or  a  paper,  but  a  book.     It  is  to 
be  hoped  that  some  day  an  industrious  student  wiil 
prepare  a  Kuskin  Primer,  in  which  his  intricate  and 
elaborate  teaching  may  be  set  forth  with  clearness, 
order,  and  precision.     I  do  not  for  a  moment  mean  to 
suggest  that  there  is  any  essential  lack  of  either  order 
or  precision,  for  no  writer  of  English  has  ever  ex- 
pressed  himself  with  more  lucidity.    But  he  is  the 
frankest  and  most  versatile  of  writers,  and  his  teach- 
ings  need  collection  and  collation,  because  they  are 
spread  over  too  vast  au  area  for  the  ordinary  réader 
to  traverse.    The  truth  possesses  him ;  he  doos  not 
possess  the  truth ;  and  it  often  happens,  as  we  have 
seen,  that  when  we  least  expect  it,  he  turus  with  tlie 
nimbleness  of  genius  from  tho  subject  in  hand  to  oue 
that  seems  only  remotely  related  to  it,  and  piunges 
wiiFiout  warning  from  pure  art-criticism  into  social 
science.     And  becausi^  he  is  the  frankest  of  men,  he 
has  never  tåken  tlie  trouble  to  reconcile  his  teach- 
mgs,  and  systematize  theni.     He  hm  even  defemled 
his  contradictions  on  the  ground  that  no  teiuher  who 
IS  himself  growing  in  a  knowletlge  of  truth  can  fuil  to 
contradict  himself.  since  such  contr.idictions  are  the 
essential  conditions  of  growth.     The  sterile  miud 

273 


-    I 


I 


!?ifr 


274    THE  MAKKKS  OK  KNHJLlsH  PIUKSE 

never  <•»  iitradicts  it?>«  If,  iKH-siiwe  it  Iiuh  become  jM-tri 
fi«Hl ;  hut  the  living  miml,  which  \h  vehvmenl  in  itn 
punrnit  of  truth,  will  inevitably  «lis«'over  tlmt  wimt 
MeenuHl  truth  in  youth  is  but  half  trutli  or  ev«'u  fulHc- 
hood  in  »ige,  and  that  iw  \av\*er  horizouH  oihmi,  a 
l>erpetual  rea^ustment  of  vision  is  nefUnl.  Thu», 
of  the  religions  truths  which  he  lesuiictl  iu  chiUUuMMl, 
he  has  said  :  "  Whatever  I  know  or  fe»!  now  of  the 
justice  of  God,  the  uobleness  of  man,  or  the  Ixauty 
of  nature,  I  kuew  aud  felt  theu,  nor  less  strongly  ; 
but  these  tinn  faiths  were  confused  by  I  he  «ontiuual 
discovery,  day  by  day,  of  error  or  liniitations  in  tlie 
do<*trines  I  had  been  taught,  and  follies  or  iucousist- 
encie^i  in  their  teachei-s." 

To  the  sympathetic  student  of  Kuskiu,  this  perfi'ct 
caudour  is  not  the  lesist  part  of  his  cliarin.  Tlure 
is  something  of  the  sw^-etn-  ts  and  fraukuess  of  the 
ehild  in  his  temper— the  inspired  child,  who  an- 
nouncas  not  opinions  but  certaiuties,  witli  the  untroub- 
led  positivem^ss  of  one  who  sees  only  one  necessju-y 
truth  at  a  time,  aiul  uttei-s  it  with  a  total  disregard  of 
conventions.  Aud  yet  this  positiveiiess  is  not  offen- 
sive, but  pei-suiisive,  l)ecause  it  is  tinited  with  the 
most  giiicious  humility  of  spirit.  Kuskiu  has  never 
hesitated  to  confess  hin»si'If  wrong  or  mistaken,  and 
hsis  made  ungrudging  anu'uds  for  any  unintentled  in- 
justice  of  criticism.  The  later  e<litious  of  Modem 
Vaintem  eontain  many  generous  moditieationsof  early 
jmlgment,  which  he  has  siiiee  discovi  red  tolxHMTone 
OUS.  To  a  lady  who  once  told  him  that  she  had  dis- 
eovered  in  ten  minutes  what  he  UHsmt  by  the  su- 
l)r«'miM'y  of  Boticelli,  he  nuule  the  scathing  reply  : 
"  ln  ten  minutes,  did  you  ssiy  ?  I  took  Iwenty  years 
to  discover  it."     Thoroughness  is  the  very  eHsence  of 


JOHN  HnsKLNMIIAHACTKHISTICS    l>7:. 

hJH  iiu-tliwl,  sw  fiankiM^  i»  «f  |,iH teiiipiT.  No  writ^i 
of  our  .lay  hm  Ixh-ii  mon»  «'ntiroly  loy.il  to  facts,  lint 
Minply  iHHauH..  hJH  niiu<l  hm  never  ccjuhhI  to grow 
l^mim  he  has  never  put  away  from  him  the dmilé 
UmiH^r  of  the  learner,  his  wrltings  reflect  the  varia- 
tions  a-  !  vital  changes  of  hisgrowth,  and  by  so  nuuh 
Um-  eflict  as  scientific  treatiw^s,  aud  have  the  r.irer 
cliiirm  of  personal  confessiona. 

Opinions  will  no  doubt  difier  as  to  the  value  of 
Knskin'8  contribntion  to  the  fund  of  human  thoughf  • 
there  can  scarcely  be  a  qnestion  as  to  his  sunremacv 
an  a  great  writer. 

The  great  writws,  who  command  not  a  transient 
Janie  but  age-long  reverence,  have  usually  pioved 
thcir  greatness  in  one  or  more  of  three  ways— their 
wnlings  are  personal  confessions,  that  is,  they  aro 
the  intnnate  and  enduring  records  of  the  individual 
Noul  :  they  possess  the  secret  of  style,  by  which  we 
nuNin  they  are  written  in  such  a  form  that  they  illus- 
trate,  in  a  suprcme  degree,  the  art  and  mastery  of 
language;  or  they  express  moml  truths  of  eternal 
vahM.  aud  infinite  monuuit.  In  what  degree  does 
Ituslxin  fuUill  theseconditionsT 

III   the  fii-st  place,  there  is  no  modern  writer  of 
Kiighsli  who   has  moiv  cleaily  i-eflected  the  move- 
nieiifs  and  intentions  of  his  own  soul  in  his  writings 
Wc    know,   wifiiout    aiiy   formal    biography,   what 
•'•a.iner  of  m;;n  lu-  is.     We  are  able  to  mark  every 
p.iI.sUu)n  of  his  (hought,  -.xs  we  watch  the  wind-ripple 
«>r  the  cloud  Ouulow  .>ii  a  drar  lake.     He  leaves  us 
1"   no  doubt  as  to  the  procesN4's  of  his  intellectual 
li|«'.     We  see  his  <liildlii)0(l,  uurtured  in  loyal  love 
<»l  tnith  and  hotiour.  stijuulatcd  in  a  scuse  of  beauty 
by  familiarity  wilii  uatnre,  aud  in  aseuseof  literaturc 


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27*5    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

by  systematic  absorption  of  the  Euglish  Bible ;   a 
childhood  sheltered,   yet  not  secluded ;    sedulously 
fostered,  yet  not  pushed  forward  iuto  uuwise  pre- 
cocity ;  thougbtful  aud  «'.alm,  yet  in  no  wise  lacking 
the  iunocent   carelessuess   aud  joyous  interests  of 
childhood.    We  see  his  youth  aud  early  mauhood 
With  equal  clearness  of  vision,  aud  mark  the  growth 
of  his  miud  in  his  miugled  revereuce  and  autagouism 
for  Aristotle,  his  fruitful  study  of  Locke  and  Hooker, 
aud  his  abiding  discipleship  of  Plato.     And  from  the 
momeut  that  he  takes  pen  in  hand,  all  his  seusations, 
opinions,  prejudices,  aspirations,  and  ideals  find  the 
siucerest  record.     He  couceals  nothing,  because  he 
is  too  generously  frank  to  learn  or  covet  the  art  of 
concealment.    He  uses  words,  not  to  conceal  thought, 
but  to  express  H.     He  takes  the  world  into  his  lom- 
plete  coufidence,  without  the  reticence  that  springs 
from  self-love,  or  the  timidity  that  springs  from  self- 
distrust.    There  is  not  a  page  which  he  has  written 
that  is  not  alive  with  personal  feeling,  and  is  not  in 
this  respect  a  frank  confession  of  the  interests  and 
purposes  of  a  living  soul.     There  are  very  few  writers, 
indoed,  who  have  dared  so  mueh.    The  great  majority 
of  books  leave  on  the  miud  no  impression  whatever 
of  the  personality  of  the  author.     But  wherever  a 
writer  does  make  his  book  a  human  document,  a 
truthful  and  siucere  delineation  of  a  soul  in  its  quest 
of  truth,  a  mind  in  its  search  for  kuowledge,  a  life  in 
its  painful  adjustment  to  the  facts  aud  problems  of 
the  world,   we  have  a  book  that  lives,  and  which 
conquers  time.     There  is  no  theme  that  so  deeply 
interests  man— as  man.     Ruskin  creates  this  keen 
interest  in  himself,  as  distinct  from  the  natural  inter- 
est  in  his  teaching.    In  the  art  of  personal  revelation 


T 


JOHN  RUSKIN:  CHARACTEUISTICS    277 

— thiit  r.ire  urt  wbich  has  givea  iiumoitiility  to  the 
wiitiiig  of  Moutaigae,  aud  Goethe,  aud  liousseau— 
Kusk  i  u  stands  amoug  the  firet  of  modems. 

For  whatever  reasons,  then,  Ruskiu  may  be  studied 
iu  the  future,  it  is  at  least  certain  that  the  persoual 
element  iu  his  writings  will  exercise  a  permaueut 
charm  upon  the  minds  of  all  who  brood  over  "the 
abysmal  deeps  of  personality,"  aud  are  fasciuated  iu 
tracing  the  curious  elements  and  accidentij  by  vhich 
the  strange  structure  of  iudividuality  is  built  up. 
We  have  learned  iu  these  later  days,  more  completely 
thau  iu  auy  other,  that  to  perfectly  understand  the 
writings  of  a  man  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  know 
all  we  eau  about  the  man  himself,  and  hence  the 
enoi  raous  growth  of  biography.     We  know  that  all 
greut  writing  has  its  origin  iu  personal  feeling  and 
experieuce,  aud  that  which  moves  us  most,  does  so 
because  it  is  the  passionate  voice  of  an  emotion  which 
loug  since  shook  the  heart  or  shaped  the  life  of  the 
writer.     We  read  our  Burns  and  Byron,  our  Shelley 
and  Wordsworth,  with  a  coustaut  recollection  of  eaoh 
poefs  life  aud  history ;  but  the  knowledge  of  that  his- 
tory  is  not  derived  from  auy  formal  biography,  so 
much  as  from  the  vital  and  unconscious  record  which 
IS  embalmed  in  the  writings  themselves.     It  is  this 
persoual    element  that  maiutains  in  uudiminished 
freshuess  aud  vitality  of  charm  writings  such  as 
these;   and  while  men  use  many  books  for  their 
knowledge,  and  praise  many  books  for  their  wisdom, 
they  love  only  those  books  which  speak  to  the  soul, 
because  they  have  beeu  spokeu  from  the  soul.     Aud 
the  writing  of  Ruskiu   belongs  to  this  rare  order. 
Throughout  the  many  thousands  of  pages  that  he  has 
writteu,  there  is  warcely  oue  that  has  not  the  stroug 


'.I 


ti 


t.» 


ii 


I    i 


,\   ! ,; 


H   \i 


278    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

vibrsition  of  personal  feeling  in  it,  or  that  falls  to 
(•(unniiuiicate  that  glow  of  feeling  to  the  reader.  His 
writings  are  the  confessions  of  a  soul  in  search  of 
truth,  and  the  revelatious  of  a  life  aud  charaeter 
laboriously  built  up  in  tidelity  to  the  highest  truth 
that  was  revealed. 

In  regard  to  the  second  element  of  great  writing— 
the  element  of  style— it  is  almost  unneeessary  to  say 
a  word.     It  wjis  by  the  charm  of  his  style  th.'t  Ruskiu 
first  captivated  the  world,  and  that  charni  increased 
With  the  growth  of  his  work.     It  owes  something  to 
Locke  and  Hooker,  aud  still  more  to  Dr.  Johnson ; 
but  in  its  flexibility,  vivaxiity,  and  eloqucnt  graee,  it 
is  peculiarly  his  own,  and  is  surpassed  by  no  dead 
or  living  writer  of  the  English  lauguage.    Its  fault 
is  grandiloquence ;  its  virtue  is  majesty.    The  long 
diapason  of  its  antitheses  occasionally  falls  upon  the 
ear  with  an  artificial  eflfect,  but  even  then  the  ear  is 
not  wearied.    It  is  perhaps  ustless  to  attempt  the 
definitiou  of  style,  but  a  fine  style  has  at  least  three 
qualities,  without  which  it  cannot  be  fine ;  viz.,  indi- 
viduality,  truth,  and  beauty.     It  must  be  individual, 
or  else  it  is  uo  style  at  all,  but  merely  so  niuch 
writing,  unuoticeable  in  the  great  mass  of  priuted 
matter  with  which  the  world  is  littered.     It  must 
have  truth,  by  which  we  mean  that  it  must  use  lau- 
guage with  a  precise  appreciation  of  its  niceties  of 
meaning ;  selectiug  the  plaiu  word  if  it  be  the  fit 
word,  but  never  the  sonorous  word  for  the  mere  sake 
of  its  sound,  if  it  be  the  unfit ;  seeking  always  to  ex- 
press thought  in  the  clearest  and  cxactest  manner  by 
employing  those  words  which  most  entirely  convey 
the  meaning  of  the  writer.     And  finally,  it  must  have 
beauty,  by  which  we  mean  that  in  a  flue  style  there 


.    *^*B 


') '  i 


""^ 


JOHN  UISK  IS:  VU  A  RACTERTSTICS    279 

M-ill  bf  s:ii  exquisite  and  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
subtle  inoUulatioiis  of  laiiguage,  so  that  the  sense  of 
beauty  is  satislied  jus  w«'11  as  the  s«'iise  of  truth,  aud 
the  truth  is  expressed  in  the  noblest  form,  and  is,  as 
it  were,  elothed  in  radia;      and  music. 

There  ai-e  writers  who  have  one  or  more  of  the 
qualities,  but  not  all ;  truth  but  not  beauty,  beauty 
but  not  individuality,  individuality  but  not  truth ; 
and  by  so  much  they  fail  to  reach  the  secret  of  style. 
A  writer  of  strong  individuality  will  oftcn  expreas 
hiniselfwith  truth,  but  notwith  beauty;  and  a  writer 
who  has  no  particular  message  and  no  depth  of  soul, 
will  ofteu  attain  to  such  beauty  as  comes  from  a 
sonorous  or  suggestive  use  of  language,  and  yet  fail 
to  aflfect  us  because  he  is  deficient  in  truth.     But  to 
attain  a  fine  style  all  three  of  these  gifts  are  needed  ; 
and  whcie  such  a  style  is  reached,  a  writer  passes 
beyond  transient  notoriety  into  the  calmer  realms  of 
immortal  renown.    It  is  therefore  no  empty  compli- 
ment  to  speak  of  a  writer  as  possessing  a  great  style ; 
it  is  really  equivalent  to  saying  he  is  a  great  man, 
for  there  is  essential  truth  in  the  axiom  that  the 
style  is  the  man. 

That  Euskin  fulfiUs  these  canons  of  style  more 
completely  than  any  other  writer  of  our  time  will 
be  evident  to  any  one  who  is  acquainted  with  his 
writings.  On  the  personal  element  in  his  work, 
which  is  the  source  of  all  individuality  of  style,  I 
have  already  touched ;  but  it  is  equally  clear  that  he 
possesses  in  an  unexampled  degree  the  qualities  of 
truth  and  beauty.  He  often  becomes  almost  philo- 
logical  in  the  minute  patience  with  which  he  will 
take  a  word,  and  explain  its  growth,  and  extricate 
its  secrecies  and  shades  of  meaning,  before  he  will 


i^ 


j 


ti 


.  J 


■i 


)  r 


■    I     ! 


ir 


2S0    THE  MAKEIiS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

U8(^  it.  Xi)  professor  or  diploniatist  could  take  mor« 
oxhaustive  care  to  couvey  his  exact  meaning  by  th« 
lise  of  words  iu  tbeir  exactest  senae.  Aud  vis  regards 
the  sense  of  beauty,  the  art  of  produciDg  fiue  aud 
uioduhited  music  from  the  various  combiuatious  of 
hinguage,  Kuskiu  has  no  peer.  But  it  is  not  the 
eharm  of  beauty  only,  it  is  the  charm  of  truth. 
Amid  all  this  pomp  of  lauguage,  all  this  radiance  of 
imagiuatiou,  aud  these  poiguant  thrilliugs  of  a  lad 
or  noble  emotion,  there  is  not  ..-ne  word  that  does  not 
perform  its  duty,  and  is  not  the  one  word  perfectly 
fitted  to  produce  the  effect  and  expi-ess  the  thought 
whieh  the  writer  would  convey  to  us.  In  his  later 
writings  Ruskin  is  much  more  direct  and  unadorned 
in  style,  and  he  has  said  of  his  youthful  writings 
with  humorous  scorn,  "  People  used  to  call  me  a  good 
writer  then ;  now  they  say  I  cannot  write  at  all,  be- 
cause, for  instance,  if  I  think  anybody'8  house  is  on 
fire,  I  only  say,  'Sir,  your  house  is  on  f  re.' "  But 
in  his  latest,  as  in  his  earliest  writings,  there  is  the 
same  charm  of  style;  now  direct,  pungent,  and 
simple,  now  passing  without  effort  into  passages  of 
sustained  and  sonorous  splendour ;  but  always  sat.j- 
fyiug  the  sense  of  beauty  by  "liukéd  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,"  and  the  sense  of  truth  by  vhc  _  recision 
of  its  eflfects ;  and,  hist  of  all,  the  soul  b;  the  force  of 
its  spiritual  fer\'Our  and  moral  earnestness  ;  certainly 
one  of  the  noblest  styles  ever  reached,  one  of  the 
most  varied,  and  the  ieast  capable  of  imitation. 

But  it  is,  after  all,  in  the  noblest  element  of  the 
great  writer — the  power  of  expressing  moral  truths 
— that  Ruskin  is  greatest,  aud  his  work  is  most 
worthy  of  reuown.  Xo  teacher  of  our  generation 
has  uttered  truths  more  pregnant,  or  has  set  a  higher 


lU 


U  H;      ! 


I  I      I 


.     I  1 


JOHN  RUSKIN :  CHaRACTERISTICS    281 

ideal  of  life  b«'fore  his  countrymen.     His  owii  con- 
(•eptioii  aud  u»^  of  life  have  been   noble,  aud  he 
Htrikcs  the  key-note  of  all  his  teaching  when  Le  says, 
"  Life  is  real— not  cvauescent  or  slight.     It  does  not 
"iinish  away  ;   ivery  noble  life  leaves  the  fibre  of  it, 
forever,  in  the  work  of  the  world ;  by  so  much,  ever- 
moro,  the  streugth  of  the  human  race  has  gaiued." 
Tlie  hope  for  which  he  has  li  ved  is  verily  the  hope  of 
the  kingdom  of  God— a  kingdom  visible  on  the  earth 
in  just  goverument  and  true  order,  in  honest  trrde 
and  honoured  labour,  in  simplicity  of  life  and  fidelity 
to  truth  i  aud  thus  a  kingdom  which,  having  virtue 
for  its  foundation,  may  iustly  antioipate  happiness 
for  its  goal.     What  he  has  made  battle  against  from 
youth  to  age  is  materialism— materialism  in  art,  in 
government,    in    methods   of  tommerce    and    pro- 
grammes  of  life.     He  has  never  spent  his  genius 
upon  an  unworthy  cause;   and  while  he  has  not 
always  been  able  to  think  hopefully  of  the  world,  he 
has  never  ceased  to  prea<jh  righteousness  in  cour- 
ageous  scorn  of  consequence. 

It  would  be  too  much  to  claim  that  he  has  made  no 
mist;ikes,  or  that  all  his  views  are  sound  and  reason- 
able  ;  but  it  may  at  leaat  be  claimed  that  no  teacher 
has  ever  moi-e  frankly  admitted  au  error  when  it  has 
been  proved  an  error ;  and  that  whethor  his  counsel 
be  r.asonable  or  not,  it  is  always  the  fruit  of  a  lofty 
view  of  life,  the  only  real  cause  of  its  impractica- 
bility  being,  as  a  rule,  in  the  reluctance  of  the  aver- 
age  man  to  be  loyal  to  seif- evident  truth  and  inward 
conviction.  His  influence  upon  the  best  minds  of 
his  generation  has  been  very  great ;  and  of  this  we 
cannot  have  a  surer  witness  than  the  saying  of  George 
Eliot,    "I  veuerate  Ruskin  as  one  of  the  greatest 


l\l 


ill 


Ill 


',4'1 


;,! 


i..'  i!. i' 


'  U 


m    il. 


■'li 


i'i,|!; 


282    THK  MAKERS  OF  EN(iLISH  PUOSE 

ft>su'lu'i-s  «)f  llu'  agf";  and  the  advicc  of  Carlylc  to 
KiiMi-sDii,  "  Do  you mul  Kiwkiu'» Furu  Vlavigna  f  If 
you  (loiiM,  tlo  :  I  sulvise  you.  Mmo,  whaU-ver  «'Ist-  he 
iH  iiow  writiug.  There  is  uothiuj,'  goiiig  on  aniong  us 
8o  notable  to  me."  Mnch  of  the  social  niovenieut  of 
our  day  is  the  direct  fruit  of  his  lAiaching,  while  it  is 
the  testimony  of  Sir  John  Lubboek  that  he  has  done 
far  more  for  science  thau  Goethe,  because  without 
making  any  pretenc»*  to  profound  scientific  knowledge, 
he  has  used  an  extraordinary  faculty  of  observatiou 
in  such  a  way  as  to  teach  people  wliat  to  observe,  and 
in  wliat  spirit  to  aceept  the  facts  of  natui-e 
without  missing  the  poetry  of  nature.  But  all  these 
clainis  are  insignificant  besidc  his  supreme  claini  as 
a  great  religions  teacher.  Religion  is,  after  all,  the 
key-note  and  inspiration  of  all  his  work,  and  his  final 
meissage  may  be  stated  in  his  own  words  :  "  All  the 
world  is  but  as  one  orphanage,  so  long  as  its  children 
know  not  God  their  Father ;  and  all  wisdom  and 
knowledge  is  only  more  bewildered  darkness,  so 
long  as  you  have  not  taught  them  the  fear  of  f 
Ix)rd."  It  is  this  religions  passion  that  drew  fiom 
(ieorge  Eliot,  and  conunands  from  us,  the  testimony, 
"He  teaches  with  the  inspiration  of  a  Hebrew 
prophet." 


U< 


XXI 

JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

Born  in  London,  '2Ut  Febrmtry,  l«Ol.  Elvcted  Fellow  of  Orirl 
College,  l»2i.  Firal  book,  The  A  rians  of  the  Fourlh  Century,  pub- 
lithed  1h;{3.  puhliahed  IVact  XC.  in  1841.  Resigned  the  licarage 
of  .Sl.  Mary'g,  Oxford,  1843.  Jieceired  into  the  Smnun  Chunh. 
Oi'l<^er  9,  H4.>.  hubliahed  Lom  and  Uain.  1848  ;  Sermonsto  Mijced 
Congregaliom,  1849  ;  Culliutn,  XHTm.  Wrotv  The  Dnam  of  Ueronliu», 
18«5;  AjMlogia  litd  Sun,  1804-5;  7  hr  Gnmmar  of  Aniuiit,  iHlO. 
Created  Cardinal,  May,  1879.     IHed,  Aiigutit  11, 1890. 

THE  life  of  Newman  posstvsses  all  the  fascina- 
tlon  of  the  euigma.  He  dominates  us  by 
force  of  a  louely  aud  iiiscrutable  individ- 
uality.  He  is  by  turus  a  child  aud  a  casuist,  a  poet 
and  a  philosophor;  at  ouce  simple  and  prøfound, 
direct  and  subtle.  Whatever  he  thiuks  or  does,  and 
however  much  we  dislike  his  eonclusions  or  hisac- 
tlons,  yet  he  couipels  oui-  ii.,  est,  our  deep  aud  uu- 
fliiggiug  interest.  What  groater  proof  can  we  have 
of  the  elemeutal  eharm  of  the  man,  thau  that  those 
M'ho  hated  his  ecclesiastical  views  could  larely  bring 
themselves  to  speak  harshly  of  him,  aud  that  dire  as 
was  the  blow  whioh  hestruok  at  Pi-ote-stautism,  yet  all 
intelligent  Protestants  regurd  him  with  afleetiou? 
The  only  other  great  author  one  can  iiame  as  pos- 
sessing  in  so  high  a  degree  this  gift  of  elemeutal 
charm  is  Shelley.  When  the  worst  that  can  be  said 
has  been  said  about  Shelley's  errors,  still  there  re- 
mains  in  us  a  profound  love  of  the  man  ;  he  also 
fasri  nates  us  by  the  compu.siou  of  a  lonely  aud  in- 
scrutable  iudividuality. 

283 


1  i 
'  I 


^n  i 


!l 


i! 


'f 


I, 


mk 


.r; 

li! 

^.1  i 

i     t 


2S4    THK  MAKERS  OP  ENGLISH  PROSE 

The  pui-allel  might  be  puHlunl  furthcr.  Luopardi, 
in  an  adminible  phniHt',  hat»  dcHcriLted  Hhellcy  a8  ''a 
Titan  iu  a  vir^in'»  lurm."  A  ceila.iu  virgiual  friish- 
nvtiSf  Ww  very  du  w  ofchildhood,  uuvur  left  the  nature 
of  Shellfy  ;  yet  Im;  wasa  worldforco  iu  the  streugth  of 
bis  inteliirt.  Chv  nujHt  aliuriug  element  iu  Newmau 
i8  the  Hsune  virgiual  freHbuet»  of  nature.  We  beromo 
eonscious  aa  we  read  bia  pages  uot  nierely  of  an  ex- 
qui^ite  lucidity  of  style,  but  of  a  yet  more  exquisite 
purity  of  eniotiou  in  tbo  writer.  Au  augel,  writiug 
about  the  ain^  aud  foUies  of  buman  life,  migbt  have 
writteu  as  Newmau  did ;  but  it  is  rarely  given  to 
uiortal  to  know  life  so  iutimately,  aud  yet  survey  it 
from  so  detacbed  a  staudpoiut.  No  doubt  the 
real  secret  of  his  jiower  over  the  world  waa  this  detæb* 
ment  from  the  world,  for  it  is  ever  the  unworldly  who 
effect  the  most  euduriug  conquests  of  the  human 
heart.  Aud  uuworldliuess  is  but  another  name  for 
the  temper  of  the  chiid.  Add  to  this  temper  great 
force  of  iutellect,  aud  you  have  the  combination  de- 
8i*iibod  by  Leopardi — " a  Titan  iu  a  virgiu's  form." 

The  chief  characteristie  of  the  man  of  geuius  is 
'.  peculiar  magnetism  of  person  and  character.  It 
i  lis  which  differentiates  him  from  the  man  of  talent, 
or  the  mere  siccomplished  writer.  The  world  desires 
to  know  all  that  can  be  knowu  about  Dickens  aud 
Thackemy,  but  it  has  not  the  smallest  curiosity  about 
Reade  or  TroUope  ;  it  seizes  ejigerly  on  eve.-y  scrap  of 
information  about  Carlyle,  but  it  is  absolulely  indif- 
ferent to  the  private  life  of  Froude.  Iu  the  actual  bat- 
tle of  the  books  the  victories  of  talent  are  ofteu  cou- 
fused  with  *he  achievemeuts  of  genius ;  nay,  more,  it 
happeus  uot  seldom  that  talent  is  rewarded  while 
genias  is  neglecte  \     B-at,  however  tardy  may  be  the 


f, 


:n 


it;     '      ji' 


1 


JOHN  HENRY  NKWMAN 


2H5 


piwesM,  KfiiiuH  nover fuilH to  coiiio  hy  Hn  own.  RiMikR 
spring  out  of  chunu^ter ;  in  CroniweU'H  phruHf>,  *Mlie 
iniud  io  the  man."  Provided  iilway»  that  a  man  of 
genius  haH  enough  literary  cnift  right  ly  to  exprwm 
his  t«niporament,  to  gi  ve  a  sincere  and  vital  record 
of  the  proffUB  of  his  own  mind,  he  cannot  but  roni- 
pel  attent  ion.  The  iuterest  aroused  by  his  writings 
is  subtly  fuM«d  into  the  interest  which  he  exercis»*  as 
a  man.  Thih  is  preem«nently  the  case  with  Newman. 
He  posseswd  all  the  vnaracteristic»  of  i  e  man  of 
genitis,  and  was  able  to  express  himself  by  the  ve- 
hiele  of  an  alraost  perfect  style. 

To  narrate  the  early  !ife  of  Newman  would  be 
equivalent  to  writing  the  history  of  the  Oxford  move- 
ment— a  tsisk  quite  outside  tht  competence  of  theso 
pages.  One  or  two  poiuts  only  may  be  noted.  Wheu 
Newman  took  up  his  residence  in  Oxford  he  found 
vital  religion  at  its  lowest  ebb.  Those  who  will  tako 
the  paius  to  cousult  Mr.  Mozley'8  ReminiHcences  will 
flnd  ample  proof  of  a  condition  of  things  well-nigh 
incrodible  to  us  to-day.  All  sense  of  the  Churoh  as 
a  divine  institution  bad  perished,  and  he  who  ha<l 
des.  rilMHl  a  cleric  as  a  man  with  a  divine  mission 
would  have  he«.n  laughed  at.  The  path  to  profer- 
ment  ji  tlu  rimrch  of  England  was  a  competent 
knowledgc  ■  CJretk.  "  Improve  your  Greek,  and  do 
not  ynmU-  yuw  time  in  visiting  the  poor,"  was  the 
at-tual  iidvf*^*  given  by  a  respected  prelate  to  his 
(•ajididiiU-s  It  ion.     The  direst  .hreat,  aocord- 

iiig  to  Mr.  which  could  be  held  over  the  head 

of  an  idh'  h,  ...y  wn»  that  he  would  'iive  to  l)e 

a  country  cui;  te  and  keep  the  ficcounts  of  a  coal 
fund.  The  ar^  nut  of  downright  joblxry  in  the 
administration        Church  patrouage  was  enormous. 


Ill 
k  \ 


ti 
il 


/i! 


It 


:\ 


r  ■' 


(t  I 


•Jm;    ti-  •:  MAKKKS  OF  KN(JLI8II  IMIOSK 

Xntiinill^  it  f(>llow<tl  tlmt  tlu*  moHt  iiu'uiiiiH>(i  ni  u( 
iii«>ii  hold  NtuTtHl  ofTiccM,  und  ,>ariHh(w  wcn;  lu-ghvliHl 
Tlio  coiHlitiun  of  public  worHhip  itMulf  wum  oftcu 
NcundnloiiH.  Tlwn»  wjw  noitlier  onlcr,  iwcnMH»',  nor 
dwenry.  8ervic»*H  wt-n;  drniuMi  or  gnbbled  throiigh  ; 
a  Htalt»  homily  of  th«>  baldf8t  and  bii«'f«'st  dittcriptioii 
wrvtHl  for  a  «Tinoij ;  magniticcnt  tKitiics,  erwted  by 
the  piety  and  gcuius  of  former  .cnorationH,  were 
allowcil  to  fiill  into  Hkameful  disre  ir ;  wlierever  ono 
tuiiutl,  in  short,  there  were  evidenn-H  of  moral  laxity, 
.spiritual  faithlessne»»,  aud  shameletw  insinccrity  and 
^vorldlin«*^«. 

Newman  h  i;^  been  traiued  in  Evangelicali.sm.  He 
tellH  UH  that  tile  bookH  wliich  most  impre>«tHl  him  in 
Ijoyhood  were  the  works  of  Scott,  the  commentator, 
liomaine,  and  La  w.  Thesc  works  wc.e  sUindards 
among  the  evangelicaiH,  and  from  tliem  not  merely  a 
strict  system  of  theolopy,  bnt  a  very  high  ideal  of 
conduct  might  be  derived.  Newman,  read»ngthem 
in  the  first  anhmr  and  frcsh  siucerity  of  youth,  found 
them  of  infinite  service.  Wiiat  inipi-essed  him  most 
in  Scott  w.is  "a  bold  unvrldlincss,"  hat  bccsime 
most  cogent  to  him  in  thenadingof  ,v's  iSVrioM» 
Call  W518  the  certainty  of  futuri'  k  wai*dt  ..ad  punish- 
ments.  It  was  entirely  cha<a«<- listic  of  Newman 
from  boj^hood  to  old  Pf^  that  u''  Jrutlis,  or  what  he 
held  to  be  truths,  had  itninge  ■  ividness  for  him. 
Dreamy,  sensitive,  imaginative  in  the  highest  and 
rarest  dcgree,  a  truth  took  al  most  concrcte  form  for 
him  ;  it  dominatcd  him  ;  it  was  a  diviue  compnlsion 
laid  upon  his  intell«'ct  and  conscience.  This  state 
of  mind  is  recorded  in  his  famons  saying  that  for 
hiui  thcre  were  "two  and  two  only,  supremc  and 
luniinously    self-evideut    beings,    myself    and    my 


l!lr  !:  ,.l! 


;li 


JOIIX  IlKMtY  NKWMAX  887 

Vv  iiUn.''    ThiH  iM  ti  '  imris.  attiiu.l.  ..f  Calviniw», 
uv.J  m  tb«  evtiugflirul  idtnw  ul  AVwiuun,  an  in  tli« 
.MMuou  tvaigeliml  Uu'ology  of  the  Hum.,  .   ^re  wa« 
»  p.;v .   .ul  Jiaveu  of  ('ulviuism.    To  a  miuU  «McupieU 
uiiU  ucimi^uU-U  by  hiuI.  a  conceptum  im  thi^s   un- 
woriaiiu  «H  i8  a  iKHfSHity.     The  world  aud  the  luntH 
of  the  world  fade  uway  into  uothinguess ;  worldly 
«uccess    hm    no    alluremeut,    worldly  privatiou   uo 
terror ;  the  «ubJime  Mtreuery  of  eteruity  in  put  rouud 
huniau  life,  the  awful  aml  iuspiriug  visiou  of  a  world 
to  come  atteuds  the  lowlicht  task    of  conduct,  aud 
the  most  coveted  rewards  of  earth  beeome  incom- 
Jiieusurate  Uwde  the  nupreme  felicities  of  ueaveu. 
Huch  WS18  the  aetua!  temjier  produced  iu  Newmau  by 
the  8tudy  of  evaugelio^U  theology,  but  it  was  very 
far  froui  being  the  temper  of  the  average  evaugelieal 
of  hm  day.     The  first  great  shoek  and  disjippoiutment 
oi  Newnwn's  religious  life  was  the  discovery  that  the 
heuit  had  l)eeu  tåken  out  of  Evangelicalism.     Here 
and  theiv,  of  courae,  Mincere  and  earuest  men  ^ere 
to  be  fouud,  but  With  the  great  majority  faith  w«a 
te  ul,  and  conduct  an  ingenio.is  compromise  lietween 
au  unworldly  cieed  aud  a  worldly  lif,..     Jt  wsus  thi» 
discovery  which    started   X..wman  nu  his  work  of 
ivhgums  refurnuition.     Ile   telt   that  the  oue  thiug 
esseutuil  for  the  nation,  aud  the  one  object  in  his  owu 
Ille  worth  supreme  devotiou,  w:us  to  briug  meu  back 
to  a  hving  laith  in  God  and  the  uuset^u. 

That  woik,  jus  he  uudei-stiuxl  it,  could  only  be 
achieveil  by  making  the  voy,  -e  of  i-e  ions  investi- 
gatioi..  M,..  l{.  H.  Iluttou  a,. piles  witli  mre  felicity 
to  the  Ihinking  juspiHJts  of  Xewmau's  life  the  great 
lines  of  Wordsworth  : 


F       I 


li 


I 


hl 


288    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PR08E 

The  intelleotna)  powen  throngh  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on  a  dim  and  perilons  way. 

IJew  truths,  like  new  worlds,  are  not  found  without 
Voyages  of  discovery.  Faith  is  the  last  crystalliza- 
tion  of  many  processes  of  doubt  A  very  short  resi- 
dence  at  Oxford  couviuced  Newman  that  among  all 
serious  aud  thoughtful  men  religion  had  somehow 
fallen  into  disrepute.  The  question  was  how  to 
deliver  religion  from  this  disrepute.  There  must 
be  somewhere  in  religion  a  vital  core,  an  indestruct- 
ible  citadel.  Christiauity  might  pi-esent  a  thousand 
difficulties,  but  some  reconciliation  of  these  diflfieufties 
must  be  possible.  For  himself,  Newman  sharply 
distinguished  between  difficulties  and  doubts.  "Ten 
thousand  difficulties  do  not  make  one  doubt,"  he 
said  ;  "  difficulty  and  doubt  are  incommensurate." 
The  existence  of  God,  he  was  wont  to  say,  was  at 
once  the  most  difficult,  and  yet  the  most  indubitable 
of  truths.  Granted  that  Christiauity  had  difficulties ; 
the  question  is,  are  these  difficulties  in  their  total 
combination  such  as  make  valid  a  general  doubt  of 
Christiauity  I  Or,  again,  great  as  are  the  difficulties 
of  faith,  are  not  the  difficulties  of  disbelief  still 
greator?  Careless  students  of  Newman,  and  even 
such  a  writer  as  Huxley,  have  fallen  into  the  error 
of  describing  Newman' s  mind  as  essentially  sceptical. 
His  mind  was  siugularly  open,  sincere  and  sym- 
pathetic,  but  in  the  true  sense  it  was  the  reverse  of 
sceptical.  It  was  rathor  an  inquiring  mind  supported 
by  the  clearest  spiritual  intuitious ;  and  thus,  while 
no  man  can  state  an  intellectual  difficulty  with  such 
charity,  fairness,  and  precision,  none  could  show  less 
dispositiou  toliuger  in  the shadowsof  mere philosophic 
doubt. 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  289 

In  thia  brief  aud  iuadequate  sUitement  we  have  the 
real  due  to  Newuiau'8  career.     Compromise  waa  the 
key-uote  of  the  Oxford  life  of  his  day,  and  indeed 
of  the  life  of  the  English  Church  as  a  whole.    The 
popular  Oxford  creed  was  that  there  was  "  nothing 
new,  and  nothing  true,  and  it  didn't  matter  "  ;  and  it 
was  scarcely  an  irony  to  describe  the  prayer  of  an 
Oxford  don  as  ''  O  God,  if  there  be  a  God,  save  my 
soul,  if  I  have  a  soul."    Newman  hated  compromise 
With  his  whole  soul.     A  thiug  was  either  true  or  false 
but  It  could  not  be  both.     He  would  shrink  from  the 
mvestigation  of  no  real  difficulty,  but  he  would  not, 
and  could  not,  leave  it  in  doubt.     His  mind  was 
e&sentially  dogmatic.     ' '  From  the  age  of  fifteeu, ' '  he 
says  in  the  Apologia,  "dogma  has  been  the  funda- 
mental principle  of  my  religion.     I  know  no  other 
re  igion ;  I  «mnot  enter  into  the  idea  of  any  other  sort  of 
religion ;  religion  as  a  mere  sentiment  is  to  me  a  dream 
and  a  mockery.     As  well  can  there  be  filial  love  with- 
out  the  fact  of  a  father,  as  devotion  without  the  fact 
ot  a  Suprenie  Being. ' '     It  was  iucredible  that  if  there 
were  a  Supreme  Being  who  had  creat^d  man,  this 
Beiug  should  have  furnished  man  with  nothing  i;etter 
than  an  enigma  to  guide  him  in  his  passage  through 
the  world  ;  still  more  iucredible  that  if  there  were  a 
divinely  organized  Church  on  earth,  it  should  not  be 
knowu  by  certaiu  iufallible  sigus.     Where  were  these 
signs?    Aud  With  that  question  Newman  began  his 

^ve  vMll  about  the  nature  of  the  logic  by  which  New- 
man convii;eed  hiniself  that  in  Catholicisni  alone  was 
the  proper  and  secure  refuge  of  the  soul ;  but  whatever 
our  opiuious  we  cannot  resist  the  impressiveness  of 
the  spectacle  which  Newman  presents  of  the  struggle 


i  i 


!i 


.1 


1   f,' 


\^\ 


Ul    I 


290    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

of  a  lonely,  reserved,  seusitive  aud  perfectly  siucere 
soul  to  tiud  a  surer  faith  its  own. 

It  is  tliis  spectacle  which  is  visible  iu  all  Newmau'8 
wiitiugs.  With  all  his  reticeuee,  a  reticence  which 
aluiost  amounted  to  shyness,  he  is  the  most  autobi- 
ographical  of  writers.  Wheu  we  least  expect  it,  iu  a 
seruiou  or  an  essay,  or  eveu  in  an  historical  disquisi- 
tiou,  we  come  upou  souie  enchautiug  glimpse  of  him- 
self — somethiug  that  tuins  the  page  info  a  vivid  study 
of  a  temperament.  With  most  writers  this  would  be 
au  ofleuce,  aud  iu  course  of  time  would  wear  the  as- 
pect  of  artifiee ;  but  in  Newman' s  case  all  that  he 
wrote  is  wrought  so  thoroughly  out  of  himself,  is  so 
iutimate  au  expiessiou  of  his  own  nature,  that  it 
w«ms  perfectly  natural  aud  appropriate.  Ruskin,  in 
his  later  writiugs,  has  followed  the  same  method ;  but 
Kuskiu's  style,  eveu  at  its  best,  is  rarely  free  from  the 
suspicion  of  artifice.  Sometimes,  indeed,  we  have  an 
uucomfortable  seusation  that  Euskiu  writes  with  a 
full  cousciousuess  of  his  owu  eloqueuce ;  it  is  not  in 
the  least  that  he  is  iusincere,  but  simply  that  he  is 
too  fully  aware  of  his  siucerity,  Newmau,  in  his 
greatest  flights  of  eloqueuce,  and  iu  the  passages 
which  most  directly  call  atteutiou  to  the  nature  of  his 
own  thoughts,  experiences  aud  emotious,  always 
lea  ves  us  with  the  seuse  of  somethiug  quite  spon- 
taueous  aud  natural.  Probably  the  thought  of  lit- 
erary  farne  never  once  eutered  iuto  Newman' s  miud. 
He  wiis  at  all  times  too  detachtnl  from  the  world  to 
be  uuduly  sensible  of  its  praise  or  blame,  especially 
iu  what  he  would  have  regarded  as  the  puerility  of 
litAirary  reputatiou.  Iu  describiug  the  emotious  of 
his  boyhood,  he  once  wrote  : — *'  I  thought  life  might 
be  a  dream,  aud  I  au  angel,  and  all  this  world  a  de- 


JOHX  HENRY  NEWMAX  291 

eeption,  .ny  fdlow-auKcIs  hicliug  theu.s^.lves  from  me, 
and  deeeivins  me  with  the  sembhiuci' of  a  matmål 
world/      This  note  of  the  ntt.r  decept  i  venens  ol  ma 
terial  tlnngs  is  «truck  again  and  again  in  his  writiugs. 
It  would  be  hard  to  parallel  among  the  greatest  mas- 
ters of  the  English  language  this  description  of  the 
world  which  occurs  in  a  sermou  on  The  Mental  HuWer- 
tnffs  of  Our  Lord  in  His  P«.«o» .—- Hopes  blightd 
vows  broken,  lights  quenched,  warnings  seorml  op- 
portunities  lost ;  the  innocent  betrayed,  the  yiuiig 
hardened  tlje  penitent  relapsing,  the  just  overcome, 
the  aged  falling;  the  sophistry  of  misbelief,  the  will' 
fulne^  of  passion,  the  obduraey  of  pride,  thetyranny 
of  habit,  the  canker  of  remorse,  the  wasting  power  of 

S  tr-T''  '^' i""'''  '^'  P^"^"^  '''  disappoint- 
ment,  the  sickness  of  despair ;  such  cruel,  such  pitia- 

blespectacles,suchheartrending,  revolting,  d.tL^b  e 

maddening  scenes;  nay,  the  haggard  fac^s  the  con 

-l-d  lips  the  flushed  oheek,  th%  dark  brol  ofZ 

willing  victims  of  rebellion,  they  ar.  all  before  Hin 

uow  they  are  upon  Him  and  in  Hini."     And  that 

which  most  eifectually  drove  Newman  ont  of  the  F  g- 

Por  lirttr^:  '^i  """■  "«^'^"^"-^of  itssplnt. 
Z.  ^'""tl^^.  "^terial  world  was  a  di-eam  and  an  , -vil 
dream;  but  it  was  only  too  sadly  apparent  that  fo 

themselves  Christians,  whatever  they  might  sav  the 
material  world  was  the  only  i^ality.     Hi^Jw  s 

doTnvi'''  r"^^  "^'"^"^  "^  theirdaiijc:;;;. 

:  !  /'""^  '^^y.jouia  do,  out  of  a  profound  conviction 
t  ut  Cl  ristianity  was  true  ;  or  would  they  do  anything 
Hu^  did  not  now  do,  if  they  were  cJiviiiced  th^^ 
Ohiistianity  wa«  ftUse?    His  reply  was  that  interest 


H 


é 


!"!' 


-  lill 


292    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

coincidud  with  duty,  aud  thus,  wbereas  the  distiuct 
Christiau  cuuuuaud  wsis  that  Christiaus  were  not  to 
love  the  world,  Christiaus  did  love  the  world,  were  as 
eager  for  ita  rewards  as  other  people,  aud  practiced 
Christiau  virtues  not  out  of  regard  to  Christianity, 
but  nierely  because  they  were  couvenieut  aud  profit- 
able. And  the  more  he  thought  on  this  theme,  the 
cleitrer  becauie  the  visiou  of  the  Homau  comuiuuiou 
as  oue  lu  which  self-sacrifice  was  an  authentic  fact, 
aud  the  absolute  reuuuciatiou  of  the  world  a  practiced 
law.  lu  a  very  remarkable  sermon  at  8t.  Mary'8  he 
elaborates  this  theme  with  rare  felicity.  Two  years 
were  yet  t  >  elapso  be  fore  his  final .  )aration  from  the 
English  Church,  but  already  he  speuKS  with  revereut 
admiratiou  of  the  ''humblo  monks  and  holy  nuns, 
who  have  hearts  weaned  from  the  world,  and  wills 
subUued,  and  for  their  meekuess  meet  with  iusult, 
and  for  their  purity  with  slander,  and  for  their 
gravity  with  suspicion,  aud  for  their  courage  with 
cruelty."  When  we  coUate  such  passages  as  these, 
passages  which  reflect  with  au  exquisite  precisiou 
Newman' 8  owu  temi)erameut  aud  habitual  thought, 
we  l)egiu  to  see  that  it  was  less  the  logic  of 
Kewmau  than  his  temperament  which  made  him  a 
Catholic. 

As  a  sermon-writer,  Newman  has  no  superior  iu 
the  English  lauguage,  either  for  range  or  style.  He 
combined  in  the  most  felicitous  degree  two  qualities 
seldom  combined,  simplicity  and  profuudity.  To  the 
philosophic  reader  probably  some  of  his  University 
sermous  will  appear  the  greatest ;  but,  fter  all,  his 
rarest  power  lay  not  in  the  directiou  of  philosoi.hy, 
but  poetry.  It  is  when  he  speaks  as  a  poet ;  wliei-  he 
aualyzes  human  motives,  lays  bare  the  human  heait, 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWiMAxX  293 

cuts  through  the  core  of  eonvention  to  the  naked 
quiveriug  human  soul    ^„d    conscience :    wheu   he 
speaks  of  .leath  and  eternity,  of  the  solemu,  tender 
things  ot  human  life,  and  the  more  solemu  and  awful 
th.ugs  of  the  life  to  come ;  when  he  draws  broad  im- 
agmative  pictures  of  the  evil  of  the  world,  of  the  cou- 
tnusts  m  human  action  and  destiny,  of  the  felicities 
or  terro.-s  that  lie  beyond  the  hour  of  Judgment  of 
heroie  or  saintly  episodes  in  memorable  lives,  of  the 
different  ways  in  which  men  regard  things,  of  the  lit- 
tleues^  aud  greatness  of  man,  his  rare  couseiousress 
ot,  or  his  habitual  indifference  to,  the  splendours  of 
the  spiritual  universe,  and  ita  reality-it  is  then  that 
he  IS  great^st.     In  such  passages  he  produces  au  effect 
not  merely  not  rivalled,  but  not  attempted  by  anv 
other.     Aud  the  effect  is  greatly  heighteued  by  the 
simphcity  of  the  means  employed.    Magnificent  as 
this  or  that  passage  may  appear  to  us,  yet  we  find 
upon  examination,  that  it  is  composed  of  the  plaiuest 
words,  aud  there  is  not  a  word  that  could  be  bettere<l 
nor  oue  altered,  without  serious  damage  both  to  the 
seuse  aud  melody  of  the  passage.     AmoTg  his  sermous 
IS  a  very  powerful  one  oa  Unreal  Words,  in  which  he 
argues  that  words  ar.  real  things,  that  i'nsiucere  lan 

th.?ul  h'  f  P^^««^«^  «f  ^°  insincere  temper,  and 
that  -words  have  a  meauiug,  whether  we  mL  that 
me^tuing  or  not-  certainly  Newman  never  ies  a 
word  without  the  most  scrupulous  regard  to  ite  real 
moauiug  aud  heuce  the  couviuciug  sincerity,  as  well 
til    diJi       '^  compactuess  of  his  stjl  .     Opinions 

llfUnl  ""  ^"^"'^••^^«^™^'"'«greatestsermous 
a  e  those  preached  before  or  after  his  conversiou. 
lu.  first  reprosent  more  fully  the  workings  of  the  in- 
tWIect  and  heart,  the  sccond  the  freedom  of  the  im- 


.[ 


\ 


■Il ' 


Wii>  f  i 


294    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

agiuation  uml  the  poetic  iiwtiiict.  If  oue  were  culhil 
iilM)u  ttt  luuiitiuu  auy  single  ««r  non,  wbich  more  thaii 
aiiy  otber  reveals  the  poet,  i)erhap8  the  most  striking 
would  be  that  upou  the  FitncHH  of  the  Glories  of  Mary, 
with  its  most  solemu  aud  beautiful  close  : — "  But  she, 
the  lily  of  £deu,  who  bad  always  dwelt  out  of  the 
sight  of  raau,  wilUugly  did  she  Oia  lu  the  garden's 
sbade ;  and  amid  the  sweet  flov  ers  lu  wbich  she  hatl 
lived."  Such  fiermous  deligbl  the  miud  with  au  ef- 
feet  more  often  produced  by  music  than  by  lauguage ; 
sometimes,  indeed,  by  the  highest  kiud  of  ly  rie  poetry, 
but  very  rarely  indt«d  by  p.  ose- ;  aud  thiukiug  of 
them,  we  tbiuk  less  of  their  substance,  thau  of  some 
rare,  almost  unnameable  quality,  subtly  akiu  to  botb 
fragrance  aud  melody,  which  pervades  them. 

Newman' 8  greatest  book  is  h^s  Apologia  Vita  8uå. 
Where  else  eau  we  fiud  such  fasciuatiug  glimpses  of 
autobiogniphy,  such  frank  confessions,  such  subtle 
deliueatious  of  motive !  Yet  the  book  was  the  work 
of  accident.  Had  not  Kiugsley  iu  an  unguarded 
momeut  accused  Nev  nau  of  teaching  that  truth  was 
no  virtue,  there  had  been  no  Apologia.  Newman 
retorted  with  veheu  «iut  deuial,  then  with  oue  of  the 
most  accomplished  pieces  of  witty  irony  which  he 
ever  wrote.  But  the  tauut  hurt  him  more  deeply 
than  he  was  williug  to  confess;  and  heuce  there 
grew  up  the  idea  of  stating  in  precise  lauguage  what 
his  life  had  really  been,  and  what  were  the  motives 
which  impelled  it.  It  is  by  no  m*^ans  a  perfect  book, 
and  it  might  easily  have  been  a  better  book.  It 
bears  too  visibly  the  marks  of  coutroversy  ;  it  was 
hastily  composed ;  many  things  which  no  doubt 
appeared  clear  euough  to  Newman  are  not  stated 
very  clearly,  and  some  liuks  iu  the  logic  are  missiug. 


4i 


.lOHX  HENRY  NEWMAN  295 

rt  nitHl..  mme  temerify  to  say  this  of  a  book  so  jnstiv 

ftiuious,  .ut  tvw  disp«sio„ate  rt^ulers  will  cloi  tl^ 

Apo/offm  without  feeling  tbat  oc.asionally  NewmaN  s 

og.c  ,«  pu..liug,  and  that  a«  he  drew  nearer  to  Rome 

IH8  at  m.cU3  of  mind  l>ecanie  le.s«  judidal,  ancHe^ 

capable  of  viudication.     But  when  all  sueh  dedu^ 

t  on«  are  made,  there  in  no  autobio(jraphy  i„  the 

Kngh«h  language  which  possesses  in  s^  rie  a  degre^ 

the  elements  of  faseination.     Nor  is  there  one  thTt 

oontams  so  many  great  passages,  which  seem  to  touch 

the  very  height  of  liteniry  achievement.     Who  that 

speaks  of  the  we.ght  of  mystery  whicL  lies  on  human 
Ufe  in  the  contemplation  of  the  doctriue  of  a  diviue 
government  f_- The  tokens  so  faint  aud  broken  of  å 
suiH^nnteuding  design,  the  blind  evolution  of  what 
turns  out  to  be  great  powers  or  trutl.s,  the  proJre's 
of  things  as  if  from  unreasoniug  elements,  .ot^o^S 
final  causes,  the  greatness  and  littleness  ot  ma     his 
far-roachmg  aims,  his  short  duration,   the  cMrtai' 
mng  over  his  futurity,  the  <li.tppoint;ent!  onffé 
the  de  eat  of  good,  the  suecess  orJvil,  phvs  cal  nain' 
montal  anguish,  the  prevalence  and  inLs  v  of  t',"' 
the  pervading  idolatries,  the  corruptions,  the  drea  y 
hopele.s.s  irrehgion    .     .     .     ,,11  this  is  a  visiJn    o 

st  ise  of  a  profound  mystery,  which  is  absolutelv 
wUhout  human  solution  ! ''  This  is  the  utte^c  S 
.1  poet,  and  ,t  is  an  excellent  example  of  Newnian^s 

the   largest    pu-tonal    effects  yet   .severely  reticent 

:;;;a**;"  il"V^"^^^^  ^^--  '-«^  -^oquia',  deHca^ 
.1  ^  >J«,  «•«  product  of  consummate  art  vet  ap- 
parently  artless-an  eloqueuce  which  peuetrates  and 


) 


VI 


206    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

overwhelujs  the  luind,  and,  once  heard,  leaves  behiud 
it  echoes  which  never  die  away. 

Newman,  while  never  attempting  to  make  author- 
ship  a  protession,  or  even  an  aim  in  life,  was  never- 
theless  a  proiific  author.    His  booka  grew  out  of 
himself,  out  of  the  pasning  conditions  aud  conflicts 
of  his  life ;  but  these  conditions  were  so  vividly  real- 
ized,  and  these  contlicts  so  numerous,  that  he  was  an 
incessant  writer.     Books  that  sprang  out  of  contro- 
versy  are  apt  to  perish  with  the  controversies  which 
begat  them  ;  and  no  doubt  much  of  Newman' s  work 
will  from  this  cause  be  forgotten.     But  even  in  those 
of  his  writings  least  consonunt  with  later  thonght 
and  taste,  there  will  always  be  much  to  repay  the 
student.     His  purity  of  style  never  deserted  him, 
even  when  his  theme  was  of  the  driest,  aud  his  logic 
most  faulty.     His  least-known  books  abound  in  de- 
lightful  surprises ;  not  merely  in  passages  of  eutranc- 
ing  self-revelation  or  splendid  eloquence,  but  of  iu- 
cisive  wit,  of  delicate   irony,  of  caustic  and  over- 
powering  satire.     In  one  department  of  literature 
only  did  he  fail :  he  had  no  gift  for  fiction,  though 
many  passages  in  his  story  of  Callista  have  excited 
the  admiration  of  competent  critics.     But  any  failure 
in  the  art  of  fiction  is  more  than  conipensated  by  his 
mastery  of  poetry.     Is  there  in  our  English  litera- 
ture  any  poem  of  similar  aim  so  powerful  and  intense 
as  the  Dream  of  Gerontim  ?    Assuredly  this  is  one  of 
the  great  poems  of  the  world,  in  spirit  and  substance 
akin  to  Goethe' s  Faust  aud  Dånte' s  Trilogy,  in  depth 
of  spiritual  insight  and  emotion  superior  to  the  former 
and  the  equal  of  the  latter,  and  in  purity  of  expres 
sion  comparable  with  the  finest  work  of  the  greatest 
poets.    It  is  also  the  most  characteristic  fruit  of 


r 


it 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  297 

Xewinan'8  «euiuH.  For  hy  birth  aud  training,  by 
t«inpfrauu'nt  ainl  lilV,  Newman  wius  CHsentially  a 
roligioiw  geuijus  a  proph  ^t  to  whom  Uoore  of  vision 
stooU  Wide  whcre  other  men  Siiw  only  impeuetrable 
darkness;  yet  so  sfusitively  syniptithetic-,  tliat  lie 
knew  the  weight  of  darkh<,sM  wliicli  crushed  otlle^^s 
altliough  he  never  onee  suocumbed  to  it ;  and  it  in 
by  virtuo  of  this  temperament  and  genius  that  he 
will  always  be  reckoned  the  greatcst  religions  writer 
whom  Enghind  has  produced-perhaps  also  the  great- 
est  sinoe  Augustiue  aud  Aquinas. 


-.1 


■taH^^k^ 


f;   I 
I  i 


f 


å-h 


xxn 

FREDERICK  W.  ROBERTSON 

Bom  in  London,  Frbntary  3,  1816.  (hdainrd,  Julif,  lfl40. 
Curafe  at  Chriat  CHurck,  Cheltenham,  1842,  Incumhent  of  TrinUy 
Chaptl,  Brighton,  1847.  Dinl  August  15,  1863.  Life  hy  Stopford 
Bnokt  publiahed,  1866. 

ROBERTSON  of  Brighton,  ns  he  is  familiarly 
knowD,  Hhares  with  John  Henry  Newman 
the  distinotion  of  having  profoundly  nffected 
the  religions  thonght  of  the  latter  half  of  the  uine- 
teenth  century.  The  small  brown  volnmes  containing 
the  sermous  which  he  preached  to  a  relatively  insig- 
nificant  congregation  in  Brighton,  about  the  time  of 
the  early  fifties,  are  known  throughont  the  world. 
They  are  found  in  librarios  w^here  uo  other  sermons 
have  a  chance  of  admittance,  and  are  read  by  men 
who  hold  in  scorn  the  average  productions  of  the  re- 
ligions press.  They  have  had  a  popularity  exceeding 
that  of  many  of  the  best  known  novels,  and  a  more 
Lasting  .sjile  than  that  of  the  most  familiar  biographies. 
They  have  influenced  the  theological  thought  of  their 
time  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  have  given  a 
ne\.  irapulse,  eharacter,  and  fjishion  to  the  prcaching 
of  the  age  itself.  Men  of  ull  creeds,  parties,  and  sects 
have  deri  ved  inspiration  from  them,  and  while  much 
that  seemed  startling  in  their  statements  forty  yoars 
ago  has  now  become  commonplace,  yet  there  is  no 
sign  of  dimiiiished  influence.  Probably,  in  the  entire 
history  of  literature,  no  sermous  have  ever  attained 

298 


"'■'h 
> 


KREDKRirK  W.  ROIi  f^RTSOX       209 

a  snmw  so  wi.le  uud  won.lorful ;  ai  i  it  hm  not  Uim 
tlmt  sort  of  fuiiu.  wliich  deiHUHlM  on  mTHonal  mmta- 
tioii,  hut  llu.  Htwidier  aiul  im>t«  t-mlu  inj,  faiue  whu-h 
workH  of  greut  litfiary  art  and  geniu»  aJone  can  lione 
to  st>«'urt'.  * 

Yft,  it  iH  singular  to  reflect,  anthorHliip  forraed  no 
purt  of  tlie  puip.j8«  or  en.ployment  crf  Robertwm'» 
lifo.  Publicity  i»e  itested,  auJ  even  pulpit  irøpu- 
larity  pained  him.     ln  oiio  of  hie  lett^TH  he  recreta 


tiiat  he  hjis  been  over-pi 
Hcnnon— the  on!y  seiiuoi 
speaks  of  IiIh  weaknesH  a.>- 
It  \h  by  one  of  the  fortm 
tliat  lii.s  pulpit  utteranc» 


«I  into  i  iblishinif  a 
wer  pu/iii  h»d— and 
iy  u»  >t  to  1».  -epeated. 
nciU^  ritn  ul  iterature 
liwni  j  reserv»  4  at  all. 


At  on«.  time  ho  fornied  a  fe   «it  of  writiug  «hat  he 
could    recall   of   a  discour  ifruniijitrly   aff^A-  its 

dehvery  ;  from  thm,  pai*».^  aud    nmi  t-ertum  sliort- 
haud  reiwrtis  of  his  scnii..„i.4,  all   «v,   |i.io«  Irdir-    of 
jus  genius  has  Ihhm.  g-aiiw^l.     K-r  Hm  ^rmous  «ere 
in  the  stru-test  scnse  'Umu^rnw-is        H«Mias  not  au 
extempore  preacher  i»  (  =,    1,,,,^^^,,^,,  ,,„  „f  jj,.^^ 
phrasr,  since  every  il\s,.MXf^  «^     *tilH*,te<l  with 
the  most  painstaking     .«,  .»r  a       ,      .riy  exact  and 
analytu-  mind,  bnt  h,     methvn.  ,     «„i,vei  y  w;w  ox- 
tempore.     Standing  jierfectly  sf  *' 
aud  beautifully  modulati-d  v. 
some  use  of  his  notes;   but  lH»t«* 
nmuy  miuutes  he  had  disca.d».»  ,h,.«i.     He  spoke 
With  intense  paasion,  yet  with  i»,    tk-t  resfin,,!.     At 
the  very  height  of  oratory  he  ne\  ,.r  ceascd  to  bo  the 
calm,  hicid  thinker,  the  austere  woi>,hij)i..     of  exact 
truth.     Loose  statenu-nt  wsus  as  a»)liorr('nt  to  liini  as 
loose  living.     Perhaps  moro  abhorreut  still  wjus  cheap 
praise  j  the  sort  of  adulation  which  follows  the  popu- 


•'^^king  inalow 
tifM  he  made 
e  hml  spokon 


,  i 


'i  ii-' 


1  . 


ifi  i 


■II 


3U0    TITK  MAKKRS  OF  EXOLISH  PIttXSE 

lur  umtor  nmong  tlioM;  who  tuv  in  luvo  with  liiHgift, 
hut  iiidifrercnt  to  Iiih  incHHiifro. 

It  iM  iiereMHiiry  to  noli(*«^  tluti»'  oliami;ti>i'iHtii*H  of 
the  intin  if  wtMtnt  right  ly  to  t>Htiiimtt>  tht^  iitituroof 
hiH  genius.  Mimt  rcitdei-N  of  Mr.  Btopfurd  Ilrooke'8 
udminible  biogniphy  <U>rive  from  it  tiii  inipntwion  of 
Honie  eurioiiH  and  unuHual  element  in  KobertHon, 
which  they  can  «mly  deHcribe  a«  "  morbid."  A  more 
eorreet  term  would  perhapsb**  "suimt  ensitlve,"  for 
morbidity  carrie»  with  it  a  HuggeHtiou  of  unwhole- 
Homenew  and  bitterneHM  quite  foreign  to  RolM'rtHon'8 
temperament.  The  facts  of  the  caso  appeor  to  be 
these.  Kol)ertHou  camc  from  a  military  stoek,  aud 
was  alwayH  in  love  with  a  life  of  action  and  adventure. 
He  writeH  in  one  of  hiH  lettent  that  he  ought  now  to 
be  at  rest  with  the  lieroes  of  Moodkee,  over  whoae 
bosoms  the  gniss  is  growing ;  and  goes  on  to  explaiu 
hinisi>lf  by  Kiying  thut  he  supposes  that  his  desire 
for  a  soldier'8  life  really  means  a  d'sire  to  see  his  foe 
concrete  aud  palpable  before  hira.  In  siich  a  con- 
fcbsion  we  find  the  key-note  of  R()lH'rlMon'8clmracter. 
By  temperament  he  wj»  a  man  of  actica  and  a 
fighter;  circumstances  made  him  the  perpetua'  curate 
of  an  insigniflcant  chapel  of-east^  in  a  fasl  mable 
watering-place.  Ile  soon  found  himself  an  object  of 
suspicion  and  slander,  and  of  that  intensJy  spiteful 
sort  of  hatred  which  is  peculiar  to  the  clerical  mind. 
No  donbt  he  aiso  met  mue'»  that  maJe  him  aware  of 
the  hollowne^ss  and  insincerity  of  conventional  relig- 
ion. RfiLMMtsou  WJ18  not  the  sort  of  man  whose 
na\  are  could  Ik»  snbdued  to  the  element  in  which  it 
workcd.  In  such  a  situation  a  little  judicious  ego- 
tism,  even  a  little  rational  vauity,  is  an  iuvaluable 
defence.     Robertson  united  with  the  strougest  will  a 


FRKDKHICK  h-.  ROBKRTSOX       nol 

r.»ttl  UiMJniMt  of  l,i,„«.|,-     in,  ,,,„,,,  („k,.  „,,  „  ,„„iji„„ 
whlrh   h..  iMli.v,.!  lo  IH.  ri^hi,  „,„|  „,aiHl  hy  it  iu- 
«••xihly,   hut    ,„,(    withoiit  niiirh  wrnt  N'llt«rtiin.. 
AiMl  With  ail  hiH  hmiiiliiy,  thm.  w.w  iiiso  in  hiH  v\mv. 
«oter  a  certain  Htmin  of  Morn  ;  morn  of  the  iH-tli- 
nvm  of  ih(>  (•ontrov«THit'M  into  whiih  he  wm*  forc.'d 
Hcorn  of  t\u'  untruthfuhu-HH  and  nieanni-HH  of  hiH  op! 
Irønents,  morn  even  of  hiniMelf,  that  he  who  woulU  have 
weleonuHl    a  HoIdier'K  Ueaih   npon   the   battle-fleUl, 
Hiiouhl  have  b«H-onie  a  iwi.ulaj-  pi-eacher  iu  u  «osHi   • 
Ing  watering  phu-e. 

Buch  a  Htate  of  niiml  in  no  doubt  uncommon,  but 
genius  aI»o  Jh  uneonuuon,  and  its  Outlook  upou  life 
is  peculiar.     It  i8  quite  «ertaiu  that  in  no  case  could 
»  man  of  KobeitHon's  tt'u.i>erauient  have  Uiken  life 
easily.     Perhaps  he  expetted  too  much  of  life— it 
18   the   way  with  idealists  aud  enthusiasts,  yet  what 
would  the  world  be  without  thenit    That  he  could 
enjoy   lutensely,   that  he  knew  oecasional  houi^j  of 
pui-e   light-hesirttMlness,  his  letters  show;  but  ess^M.- 
tially   he    wsw  uMt  a    happy  man.     The    ordinary 
robus     man    knows  that   life  is  a  rough   busiue^ 
expi^ets  bl..ws  and  brui^-s,  learns  to  langh  at  thein 
and  at  iiistjudges  his  fellows  in  the  sjiirit  of  Luther'^ 
tolenml  axio.n  that  ''you  must  take  men  iw  they  ai-e 
you   cannot   aUter  their  natures."     Hut  to  the  super- 
seusitive  man  no  such  course  is  possible.     Fol] v  in  the 
wise,  nincour  in  the  «ood,  weakness  in  the  amiable 
are  to  hun  hideous  discoveries  and  crnshing  blows.' 
Ihe  robust  man  works  with  Ihe  bu/.zinjj  of  the  flies 
of  slander  round  his  head  aud  takes  no  notice  ;  with 
the  sensitive  man  each  stin-  is  felt,  ejich  tiny  wound 
inflames,  and  slander  is  a  veritable /orw^M/ o/-/?,>s  in 
the  dark.     One  cannot  well  call   this  stat*/ Jf  ft-el- 


'I 

'W 


1. 


302    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

ing  morbid.  The  impression  made  upou  us  by 
K()bert.st)n's  Brighton  career  is  of  8om<>  exceeding  fine 
aud  delicate  instrument  put  to  nses  too  rough  for  it. 
He  wus  ill-fltted  for  controversy,  especially  for  the 
pettiness  of  religions  controversy  ;  ill-fltted  for  the 
glai-e  of  a  public  life  even ;  a  man  esscutially 
modest  and  reticent — guarding  his  feelings  from  the 
scrutiny  of  the  crowd,  yet  compelled  by  the  necessities 
of  his  position  to  reveal  them,  and  suffering  toiture 
in  the  process.  And  his  feelings  were  all  intense,  so 
that  he  could  not  help  pouring  himself  out  emotiou- 
ally  upon  every  subject  that  interested  him,  to  a  de- 
gree  quite  incredible  to  colder,  perhaps  one  might 
sjiy  more  restrained  and  better-balanced,  natures. 
Thus,  that  which  was  his  power  as  a  preacher  was 
his  martyrdom  as  a  man. 

One  other  element  also  may  be  noticed.  Probably 
Robertson  was  not  wrong  in  his  predilection  for  a 
8oldier's  life  :  in  an  obscure  way  he  appears  to  have 
been  conscious  that  he  was  not  natuniUj'  fitted  for 
the  life  of  the  thinker.  Most  men  of  genius  who 
have  attained  farne  in  literature  have  very  early  in 
life  indulged  in  literary  expression.  Even  wlieu  the 
power  of  expression  has  come  late,  it  has  soon  grown 
into  a  passion,  and  become  the  joy  and  occupation  of 
life.  But,  SIS  we  have  already  seen,  the  pursuit  of 
literature  formed  no  part  of  Robertson's  life.  He  is 
a  quite  singular  instance  of  a  man  of  genius  entirely 
uucouscious  of  his  own  gift.  One  might  easily  speeu- 
late  on  what  might  have  happened  if  Robertson  had 
not  been  a  preacher  ;  would  he  have  died  with  all 
his  music  in  him?  Would  he  have  found  sonie 
literary  ambition  suited  to  his  mind?  As  it  was, 
his  whole  genius  tiowed  into  his  preaching.     Twice, 


!,1 


I 


FREDEHTCK  W.  ROBERTSON       303 

perhups  tliiice  a  week,  he  was  forc«d into  expn^ssion. 
Few  peoi)le  have  the  least  coueeptiou  of  what  such 
a  tusk  impli««.     Ko  doiibt  it  is  ofteu  done,  but  it  is 
very  seldom  doue  in  Robertson'8  fashion.     He  put 
all  the  fulluess  of  his  mind  into  his  task.     No  wonder 
he  speaks  sometimes  of  the  strain  of  his  work,  no 
wonder  that  there  are  frequent  fits  of  dejection  and 
nielancholy.     And,  oue  may  a^ld,  no  wonder  that  a 
man  so  sensitively  orgauized  broke  down  under  the 
burden  and  died  young.    Sad  as  the  end  of  Robert- 
son  was,  yet  one  cannot  but  feel  that  it  was  mercy 
that  cut  his  life  short,  and  that  his  release  was  well- 
earned.     Human  lives  uiay  be  measured  by  diflfusion 
or  intensity  ;  between  au  aged  Lear  and  Robertson 
there  appears  to  yawn  the  widest  gulf;  yet  of  the 
end  of  each  it  might  be  said  — 

O  let  him  pass  !    He  hates  him 
That  would  npon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer. 

Perhaps  also,  when  we  justly  measure  the  infinite 
capatjity  ol  suflfering  which  lies  in  super-sensitive- 
ness,  we  may  add  the  final  verdiet  of  Kent  — 

The  wonder  is  he  hath  endnred  so  long. 

The  sermons  of  Robertson  are  at  once  intimate 
and  catholic.  They  are  :catholic  in  the  sense  that 
they  treat  gieat  questions  in  a  great  manner;  they 
ure  intimate  in  the  sense  that  they  vividly  express 
the  characteristics  of  his  own  mind.  The  quality 
which  hus  done  more  than  auything  else  to  preser\'e 
them  is  no  doubt  the  power  which  emanates  from 
the  moral  nature  of  the  preiicher.  It  is  said  that  a 
small  tradesmau  in  Brighton  kept  in  his  shop-parlour 


304    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 


''i  i 


"'\    \ 


IV» . 


i' 


■y    ,  i 


a  portrait  of  Itoberteon  ;  whenever  he  wjis  tfiupted 
to  do  some  dishonouruble  busineHS  trick,  hv  lookcd 
upon  his  portrait,  and,  with  tho»"  austere  but  kindly 
eyes  gaziug  into  his,  felt  he  could  not  do  it.    This 
anecdoto  is  very  typical  of  the  sort  of  influence  which 
Eobertsou  has  exerted  over  mauy  miuds.     He  was 
a  great  gentleman,    with  very  lofty  aud  iuflexible 
ideals  of  truth,   houour,  aud  chivalry.     He  hated 
shams,  cant,  hypocrisy,  meauness,  evasiou,  prevarica- 
tion,  and  all  kiudred  sins  with  a  perfect  hatred.     He 
allowed  no  illusions  to  impose  themselves  on  his  own 
reasou  or  conscieuce,  and  he  lalwured  to  remove  all 
illusions  from  the  minds  and  consciences  of  others. 
He  himself  possessed  and  kept  the  priceless  gift  of 
iudividuality,  which  is  but  auother  phrase  for  fearless 
liberty  of  conviction.     He  was  not  deceived,  ou  the 
one  hand,  by  popular  praise,  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
turned  aside  by  a  hair's-breadth  from  his  purpose  by 
popular  suspicion.     He  steered  his  course  right  on- 
ward,  and  made  even  his  most  viiulent  adversaries 
fet4  his  absolute  houesty.     And  this  invincible  hon- 
esty  charact«»rized  not  ouly  his  motives  but  his  thiuk- 
ing.     He  went  to  the  Bible  with  no  views  to  support : 
he  was  a  searcher  after  truth,  and  the  ti:)'!;  he  found 
he  preached.     The  result  is  that  his  sermons  have  a 
ficshness  and  force  which  lifts  thera  quite  out  of  the 
rut  of  the  best  pulpit  literature,   aud  gives  them 
world-wide    application.     Not  only   are  they  allve 
with  his  own  kcenncss  of  thought,  but  they  are  filled 
with  his  own  moral  energy,  and  are  aglow  with  his 
own  beautiful  chivalry  of  spirit. 

Togethcr  with  this  great  endowment  of  a  sincere 
and  unvitiated  nature  Robertson  biought  to  his  life- 
work  a  rure  combination  of  iiitelloctual  gifta.     Chief 


FUEDERICK  W.  ROBERTSOX       305 


m  } 


iimong  tbese  must  rank  his  lucidity.  The  most  com- 
l»li('iit**(l  aud  difficult  theme  res()lv«'S  itself  lK'fon> 
liis  acute  analysis.  lu  a  manner  petuliariy  his  own, 
he  seizes  upon  the  most  baffliug  problems  of  Chris- 
tianity  aud  pours  ou  them  a  Hood  of  liglit.  Oue  of 
his  most  constaut  liearers  ouce  said  that  he  had  never 
lu'ard  him  without  having  some  diflficulty  explaiued, 
or  souu^  stumbliug-block  removed.  His  very  method 
of  stating  a  difflculty,  so  caudid,  toleraut,  syrapa- 
tlietic,  aud  complete,  often  takes  you  half-way  to  its 
solution.  It  is  not  that  there  is  auythiug  startliugly 
original  or  uneouventioual  in  form  or  phrase ;  so  far 
as  sermon  form  goes  Robertson  was  couventional,  aud 
he  was  much  too  fastidious  in  tsiste  to  permit  the 
least  willful  eccentricity  of  phraae.  It  is  rather  by 
clearuess,  candour,  aud  uuaflfected  simplicity  that 
Robertson  wins  the  miud.  The  efFect  of  one  of  his 
greater  sermous  is  like  the  gradual  growth  of  light. 
The  darkuess  is  not  shattered  suddenly  :  it  slowly 
melts  aud  diasolves.  By  what  seems  magic,  so 
potent  aud  imperccptible  is  the  procest;,  the  distant 
grows  into  nearness,  the  vague  into  distiuctuess,  the 
coufused  into  orderliuess,  aud  the  general  harmony 
of  thiugs  is  felt.  Perhaps  no  preacher  has  ever  had 
so  rare  a  facidty  of  irradiating  a  subject. 

With  his  extreme  lucidity  of  intellect  there  is 
joined  strong  sympathy — a  combination  very  far 
from  common.  If  I  were  askinl  to  state  what  is  the 
most  acute  sort  of  paiu  that  human  nature  can  know, 
I  thiuk  I  should  reply,  *' the  paiu  of  sympathy."  All 
sympathy  is  paiu,  aud  in  th(^  dcgree  that  sympathy 
is  iuteuse,  paiu  is  intense.  Robertson,  far  more  thau 
any  othcr  preacher  whose  work  luus  lived,  felt  the 
paiu  of  the  world,  the  tears  that  are  iu  mortal  thiugs. 


V 


>  ■ 

n 


s\\ 


300    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE 

The  poor,  the  disiiiherited,  the  uu''0ii8idered ;  the 
fimid,  tlie  doubtful,  aud  th»^  weak  ;  the  lomUy  and 
the  uueoiupreheuded  in  life  and  chanu'ter  ;  lives  that 
are  narrow  and  barren  of  opportunity  ;  lives  tlial 
eitber  by  their  own  weakuess  or  by  the  wickeduevSS 
of  others  endure  shameful  injiuMes— for  all  tbese, 
Robertson  felt  with  that  sacrificial  fnllness  of  sym- 
pathy  which  almost  literally  bears  the  sicknesses  and 
tarries  the  gricfs  of  others.  It  is  quite  characleristic 
of  hiui  that  ai  one  time  he  spent  loug  hours  o2  the 
night  in  walking  the  streets  of  Brighton,  endeavour- 
ing  to  redeem  fallen  wonien.  Auy  tale  of  wrong 
done  to  women  mo  ved  him  to  a  paroxysm  of  rage, 
aud  those  who  witnesæd  these  terrible  outbursts 
never  forgot  them.  He  knew  that  sort  of  auger 
which  is  virtue  enraged,  pity  enraged,  sympathy 
suddenly  fanned  into  white  heat :  the  wrath  of  the 
Lamb !  His  sermons  bear  witness  to  these  things. 
Multitudes  who  are  uo  scholars  and  have  not  the  wit 
to  reeognize  Robertson's  rare  quality  of  intellect, 
have  read  these  sermons,  saying,  "Here  is  one  who 
understands  wte/"  He  who  can  comprehend  the 
spiritual  tragedy  that  underlies  commouplace  lives  is 
sure  of  a  wide  audience  ;  for  who  is  without  his  inner 
secret  of  pain,  who  that  does  not  yearn  to  be  under- 
stood?  Eobertson's  own  lonely  an'  uucomprehended 
life  taught  him  intense  sympathy  •  ill  who  sufFercd, 
aud  gave  him  the  kcy  by  wiiich  secrets  of  many 
hearts  wcre  revealed. 

In  point  of  literary  charm  aud  grace  these  dis- 
coursos  hold  their  own  against  the  best  specimens 
of  i)ulpit  literature  in  auy  age.  It  is  true  that  one 
cannot  pick  out  from  thcni  gorgcous  passjiges  of 
eloqueuce  as  oue  muy  eaaily  do  from  the  sermons 


'^■]}t 


)k 


i=i 


FREDER  ICK  W.  ROBERTSON       307 

of  Jeremy  Taylor  or  Bossuet.  Pjissiige  for  passage, 
there  is  uotliiug  jtcrluips  tbat  strikes  so  full  a  uote  of 
lyric  beiuity  as  sonie  half  a  dozen  pages  of  Newman. 
Khetorii-,  as  mere  rhet  iric,  was  abhorreut  to  Rohert- 
son.  The  l)are  suspieion  thi»,t  people  thought  lie  was 
ssiying  somethiug  fiue  was  sufficient  to  reduce  bim  to 
sileuee.  lu  reaUiug  Newmau,  one  feels  that  he  bad 
a  ee^^iiu  couscious  deligbt  in  the  exercise  of  his 
genius,  tbat  bere  and  there  lie  must  have  written 
witb  a  plesusurable  sense  of  bis  owu  powers.  Robert- 
son  is  never  tbinking  of  bimself,  never  even  tbinking 
of  the  form  in  which  be  expresses  bimself.  If,  as  a 
literary  artist,  lie  bad  any  couscious  alm,  it  was  to 
say  wbat  be  bad  to  say  in  the  simplest  form.  The 
result  on  the  reader  is  an  impression  of  delightful 
naturalness.  The  language  is  refined,  fe"vent,  cogent, 
but  there  is  no  efifort  at  fiueness.  His  illustratious 
are  drawn  from  every  source,  yet  each  is  manifestly 
ebosen  not  f  ".r  its  beauty  but  its  pertinence.  Yet  the 
beauty  is  there :  a  touch  of  poetry,  a  tender ness  of 
pbnise,  somethiug  tbat  Ungers  on  the  ear  like  music, 
all  the  nioi-e  remarkable  by  coutrast  witb  the  austerity 
of  its  setting.  If  o?i*3  may  l^e  permitted  a  metapbor, 
which  uuist  not  be  too  closely  pressed,  Rjbertson's 
sermous  have  something  of  the  perennial  fresbuess 
and  simplicity  of  the  flowers  of  the  field  about  them. 
A  rare  orcbid  is  more  wonderful,  but  not  so  sweet ; 
men  may  tire  of  the  meretricious  splendour  of  the 
orcbid,  but  they  do  not  tire  of  violets  and  primroses. 
Probably  the  reason  of  the  siistained  popularity  of 
these  discourses  lies  more  than  we  imagine  in  their 
simplicity  and  naturalness.  We  read  them,  ve-read 
tlu'm,  and  come  back  to  them  after  mauy  yeare,  always 
witb  a  new  deligbt,  for  they  possess  tbis  higbest  chai- 


>n 


i    I 

I 

4*> 


al 


M 


308    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  PUOSE 


,-     f 


iOl 


a(;tt'ri8tic  of  clasHic  literature  that  their  ckarin  m  iucx- 
liauHtible. 

Robertson  died  at  the  very  fuUuosH  of  hih  owera, 
having  iu  his  lifetime  received  no  couiiaeuHurate 
recognition  of  his  genius.  His  inteusity  of  living 
wore  him  out,  and  the  overwiought  and  sensitive 
brain  developed  disease  of  an  agoniziug  nature.  He 
hoped  to  live,  for  love  of  life  was  strong  in  him  to  the 
laat.  When  he  could  scarcely  move,  he  crawled  to  the 
window  to  look  out  once  more  upon  "the  blessed 
day."  But  the  mischief  had  gone  too  deep,  ar.d  the 
brain  v/as  too  dreadfully  injured  to  admlt  the  hope 
ofrecovery.  "Let  me  rest.  I  must  die.  Let  God  do 
His  work ! ' '  were  his  last  words.  He  was  only 
thirty-seven.  Over  his  grave  his  friends  iuscribed 
three  words  that  expressed  the  spirit  of  his  life  : 
Love,  Truth,  Duty.  But  even  his  friends  scarcely 
recognized  in  him  one  of  the  master-spirits  of  the 
age.  Years  passed  away,  and  then  at  length  came 
the  publication  of  his  sermons,  followed  by  the 
sympathetic  biography  of  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke,  and 
England  knew  that  once  more  a  man  of  genius  had 
been  in  her  midst.  Brighton  had  not  known  it, 
Brighton  does  not  know  it  now.  If  the  stranger 
asks  for  the  humble  little  Chapel  of  Ease,  in  Ship 
Street,  whcre  Robertson  once  preached,  no  one  re- 
members  where  it  is,  or  remembers  the  man  who 
once  made  it  the  shrine  of  genius.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  it  is  more  fitting  that  Robertson  should  be  re- 
membered  not  by  the  local  and  accidental  associa- 
tions  of  his  life,  but  as  a  spiritual  force,  as  the  soldier- 
saint  of  truth,  as  the  clearest  and  most  honest  inter- 
preter of  Christianity  whom  the  uiuet«enth  century 
has  produced. 


ill 


■  4 

i 


By  NORMAN  DUNCAN 
Doctor  Luke  Th.  Labrador 


¥>i 


i  ' 


lamo,  Cloth,  f  1.50. 


tf.  y,  SveniHjf  Jitt :  "Mr.  Duncan  is  ucurving  o(  much  praiM 
for  (his,  his  first  nov:l.  ...  In  hin  descriplive  passages  Mr,  iJuncan  ia 
iincere  to  the  smallest  detail.      His   characters  are   painfil   in  with 

bold,  wide  stroke './nlilce  mos'  first  novels,   'Dr.  Luke'  waxe* 

slronger  as  't  progreises.  ' 

lltnrfvan  DyL. :  "It  is  a.  real  book,  (ounded  on  triith  and 
lighted  with  itnaglnation,  well  worth  reading  and  remembering." 

Rtvirtv  of  Revifuit:  "Mr.  Duncan  has  added  a  new  province  to 
the  realmof  literature.  This  stron»,  beautiful  love  story  moves  with  ■ 
distinctive  rhythm  that  is  as  fresh  as  it  is  new,  One  o(  the  season'* 
two  or  three  Lest  hooks." 

Hamilton  W.  Mabit,  in  th*  iMéitf  Homt  Journal:  "Full  o(  in- 
cidenls,  dramatically  told,  of  the  heroism  and  romance  of  umble  life; 
ftrong,  tender,  pathetic ;  one  of  the  must  wholesome  ttories  o(  tha 
«eaion." 

Current  Litiraiure  :  "Beyond  a  peradventure,  ranks  as  one  of  tha 
most  remarkable  novels  issued  ia  1904.  Stands  out  so  prominently  ia 
the  year's  fiction  that  there  is  little  likclihood  of  its  being  orer- 
shadowed." 

London  Punch:  "Since  Thackeray  wrote  the  last  word  of  'Colonel 
Newcome/  nothinf;  finer  has  been  written  than  the  parting  scene 
where  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy,  the  rugged  old  fisherman,  answera 
the  last  call." 

Saturday  Evtning  Post :  "There  is  enough  power  in  this  little 
volume  to  magnetize  a  dozen  of  the  popular  novels  of  the  winter." 

Sir  Robert  Botid,  Prtmier  of  Newfoundland :  "I  shall  priie  the 
book.  It  is  r'.iarmingly  written,  and  faithfully  portrays  the  simple 
lives  of  the  :  .oble-hearted  fisher  folk." 

Brooklyn  Eagle :  "Norman  Dunrn  ts  fulfilled  all  that  wat  e»- 
pected  nf  him  in  this  story :  it  c^'  liim  beyond  a«**'ion  as  on« 

of  the  itrongmuters  of  present->:       iiction." 

TOUnTH  zonioN 


1 


w 


^  ■•-.-■■■■ •   '      -Lå 


I    ) 


THL    COMTLZTL      WOKK 


O  F 


Kalph   Connor 


The  Trospector 


tijth  IkoMsami 


A  Tale  of  the  Crow'»  Nest  Pai», 

l2mo,  f  1.50 
•■A  novcl  to  intentc  that  one  Rrlnd<  hii  leeth  lr«i  the  tinew*  ihould 
«nap  ere  llie  sirain  i«  relcaied." — Chicago  Trihtmr. 

Given  '^'^  thotaand 

The  Canyon  Story  from  ^^The  Sky  Pilot"  in  Art  Gift 
fiook  Series,  IjeautifuUy  printed  in  two  colors  with  many 
illustrations  and  marijinal  etchinf^s. 

l2mo,  art  cover,  75c.  nei 

Vlack    'Rock  45oth  thousand 

A  Tale  of  the  Selkirk»,  with  an  Intro<luction  by  Prof. 
George  Adam  Smith,     lllustrated  by  Louis  Khead. 

i2mo  Cloth,  $1.25 
"Rilph  Connor  ha»  cone  inio  ihc  licarl  of  ihe    Nnrlhwest  Canadian 
mnuntaini  and  ha»  paintrd  tor  u»  a  picture  ol  lite   in   the    Itimhcr  and 
inining-ramps  of  surpassini:  nierit."— ."f/.  Louis  Ctobf  llrmocrat. 


The  Sky  Pilot 

A  Tale  of  the  Foothills. 


såot/t  thousand 


lllustrated  by  Louis  Khead. 

l2mo.  cloth,  $1.25 
"  Ralph  Connor's  'Blacle  Rock'  was  -ond,   hut    'The  Sky  Pilot'  U 
hetter.     The  matter  which  he  «ive»  u»  is  .cal  life  ;  virile,  true,  lender, 
humoroii^,  pathelir,  »piritiial,  wholevonn-, —  The  Outlook. 


t6otk  thousand 


The  Tian  Trom  Glengarry 

A  Tale  of  the  Ottawa.  I2ni().  cloth,  $1.50 

"A  legitimate  successor  to -The  Sky  Pilot' .inil  'Black  Rock.' which 
tecurcd  him  the  swift  farne  that  leups  to  the  aiithor  who  strikes  a  new 
and  cffective  note."— 7"-*/  I.iterary  Digest. 

Glengarry  School  Days         i^ththousaui 

A  Story  of  early  days  in  (llengarry. 

lanio.  lllustrated,  cloth  $1.25 

" More  than  that  he  has  Riven  us  pictiires  of  that  little-known 

couiitry  which  hring  with  theni  clear,  cold  hreaths.  the  shadows  of  the 
woods,  the  grandeiir  of  the  tall  tree  triinks,  the  strength  and  the  free- 
dom  ol  this  ouKloor  life  "—Chiciiga  fournal. 


FLEMING    H.    REVELL     COMPANY.    Publishers 


N 


W 


B      O 


B      Y 


NORMAN  DUNCAN 
Dr.  GrenfelVs  Parish 

i6  niuttratioHS.  Cloth.  $t.oo  nøt. 

nutlMik!  "U  U  •  *erie<  of  «ketche,  of  Grenfell'»  work  in  Labrador 
A  veryrarep.>:ture.hraml.orhasKiven..f  a  v.ry  rare  man;  a  true 
tory  of  adventure  wh.ch  »e  »hould  like  to  Me  in  the  hand.  of  "verv 

do/en,  of  the  l.itle  came»,  of  «orie,.  true  Morie,.  a,  (,r  vouche.  full  of 
human  nature   as  it  is  exhibited  in  primitive  coiditiun>." 

Ci>Hgrfx'"li'>Halhf:     "Normiin  niincan  draw»  vivid  picture»  of  the 

?h»  i  Th  "  'asc-n^^-nK  «jile  and  told  with  real  enthi.siam  and 
charm.  1  he  unu.ual  .tase  of  action  and  the  chivalrou.  quality  of  thr 
hero.  ooce  knowu.  lay  hold  upon  the  imagination  aud  will  not  let  go." 

Third  Edition 

V    «    » 

By  DR.  WILFRED  T.  GRENFELL 


The  Harbest  of  the  Sea 

lå  niustratioHS.  Cloth.  $1.00  tut. 

Xni>  VorkSun:    "Relate»  .he  life  of  the  North    Sea   f.sherman  on 

Mr   "°ri='r".^'^T"."='"''-*'"  ""•='   "PPrenticerhip     the    "i„e, 

hAi,    ?hr    '"l"'^'^'  2'  «^"""««.""d   of  s^aman^hip "  he  eviUo» 

.ii^  '    n  '\  "'  '^^  •'"P  '"  mi"i"n      These   are   real  sea     ale» 

admirablyT"     '""''V  °«  *''<>'="" '""»''  water,  and   are   111'] 

•.rff^riLr?*!'"^'.  "^u   «'"/e"  «-="«.  in  fiction  form.  hut  with  Mrict 
adherence  to  faot    how  the  mission  to  deep   sea   fishermen  came  to  be 
foundeo  amons  the  fishing  fleets  ihat  frequent  the  Dogger "Tnktha^ 
h',  i^^n^^  I-rommently   in    the  recent\nternati»nu?!o  nVpX^,  on 
tV.JUtirVt-^^.Vrhetrn!"""''' ''"''"'"'  -'  -compHshm^nts  fo"r 

M^,VrT  '"""*''"'■;     "Jt  is  a  plain  unvarnlshed  tale  of  the   real  llfe 

makes  ,„?,/„",  "j''""!."  ""^  "1  '^^  *=""«='  ^^'^^  «renfeirs  miss  on 
make»  to  keep  before  their  minds  the  words  of  Him  who  stilled  the 
waters  and  who  chose  His  bosom  disciples  from  men  su*h  m  thev  " 

qiuinted  With  a  man  of  the  rii;hr  sort,  doinj;  a  man's  «»^rk." 

Third  Edition 


i 
i 


TH  r.    HUBBARn   f,  X  PL  «KINO   EXPEDITIOH 

By  DILLQN  WALLACE 

The  Lure  «f  '*» 
Le, '  -ador  Wild 

ll-UlsrRATKU  8V<>  CLOTH  $1.50  NKT. 

AVm>  JVr*  Sum:  "A  remarkaUle  Mory.  aml  we  «re  mutli  tniaukea 
H  it  dop,  nr  l  lieLomi,-  a  rla»*k  amunu  ule«  ol  exploration." 

Chicago  EvtHiHS  Pott:  "Two  ri.nlineni-.  Ipcciime  imrreMe.l  iii  llie 
»torir«th;itramn..iUof  •:iL-»il<lal".iitlhc  liaiiUliip,  of  the  Hubl.ard 
cxpr.lilion  Wiillai  e-s  «tory  an.l  re.  ord-they  are  inscparalilr-po»- 
»e»ie«  in  il»  nakrd  trulli  more  ol  humc.  intrrcit  ihan  »core»  ol  volumet 
olimaginai-e  ailventurcand  romance  ol  the  wild." 

Rffieiv  0/ Krvlnus :  -The  chronicle  of  hiuh,  noble  purpose  aiiJ 
B'hicvcfnent  and  it  appeals  lo  the  finest,  be«t,  and  most  virile  in  man." 

Chicago  Record-Hf  raid :  "One  ol  the  most  lascinating  book»  ol 
travel  and  adventure  in  the  annaU  ol  recent  AmeriLun  exploration 
Evcry  man  or  boy  who  has  ever  heard  the  'red  sods'  of  the  wilder- 
nesscallintf  will  rcvel  in  ihese  graphic  pages.  in  which  the  wild  odor 
ol  the  pines,  the  niar  of  rapids,  the  thrill  of  the  thase  and  of  ihicken. 
int  d.inget»  come  vividly  t'>  the  scnses.  " 

Seu<  Yørk  Evtning  Post .  "The  Mory  istold  simply  and  wrll.  It 
maybe  added  that  for  tragic  adventure  it  has  «carcely  a  parallel  ex- 
cept  in  Arctic  exploration . " 

Sew  York  Evtning  Mail :  "A  chroniile  of  the  expedition  Irom 
first  to  last,  and  3.  fine  tnbulc  to  the  memory  of  Hubbard,  whose  spiril 
HrugKle<l  with  such  pilial.le  courage  against  the  ravages  ol  a  purely 
physical  breakdown     The  story  itsell  is  well  fold." 

Chicago  Inter- Ocean:  "In  the  records  ol  the  exploration»  of 
rcccnt  years  there  is  no  more  tragic  story  than  that  of  Hubbard"»  al- 
«empt  to  cross  the  great  unexplored  and  mysteriou»  region  of  the 
northcastern  portion  of  the  North  American  continent  Wallace  him- 
«cif  «arrowly  escaped  death  in  the  Labrador  wild,  bnt,  having  been 
rescued.hc  has  brought  out  of  that  unknown  land  a  remarkable  story.  " 

Proøklyn  Eagle:  "One  of  the  very  best  slorie»  of  a  canoe  trip  into 
the  wild»  ever  written." 

lOUKlH    l.Vl'lION 


